'Thwart the empires, 'neath the oceans, Subtly speeds the living fire; Who shall tell what wild emotions Spring from out that thridden wire? "Jute is lower--copper weaker," This will break poor neighbour Jupp; But for me, I shout "Eureka!" Wealth is mine--for wool is up! What care I for jute or cotton, Sugar, copper, hemp, or flax! Reeds like these are often rotten, Turn to rods for owners' backs. Fortune! ha! I have thee holden In what Scotia calls a "grup," All my fleeces now are golden, Full troy weight--for wool is up! I will dance the gay fandango (Though to me its steps be strange), Doubts and fears, you all can hang go! I will cut a dash on 'Change. Atra Cura, you will please me By dismounting from my crup-- Per--you no more shall tease me, Pray get down--for wool is up! Jane shall have that stylish bonnet Which my scanty purse denied; Long she set her heart upon it, She shall wear it now with pride. I will buy old Dumper's station, Reign as king at Gerringhup, For my crest a bust of Jason, With this motto, "Wool is up." I will keep a stud extensive; Bolter, here! I'll have those greys, Those Sir George deemed too expensive, You can send them--with the bays. Coursing! I should rather think so; Yes, I'll take that "Lightning" pup; Jones, my boy, you needn't wink so, I can stand it--wool is up! Wifey, love, you're looking charming, Years with you are but as days; We must have a grand house-warming When these painters go their ways. Let the ball-room be got ready, Bid our friends to dance and sup: Bother! _how_ can I "go steady"? I'm worth thousands--wool is up! GARNET WALCH. _WOOL IS DOWN._ Blacker than 'eer the inky waters roll Upon the gloomy shores of sluggish Styx, A surge of sorrow laps my leaden soul, For that which was at "two" is now "one--six." "Come, disappointment, come!" as has been said By someone else who quailed 'neath Fortune's frown, Stab to the core the heart that once has bled, (For "heart" read "pocket")--wool, ah! wool is down. "And in the lowest deep a lower deep," Thou sightless seer, indeed it may be so, The road to--well, we know--is somewhat steep, And who shall stay us when that road we go? Thrice cursed wire, whose lightning strikes to blast, Whose babbling tongue proclaims throughout the town The news, which, being ill, has travelled fast, The dire intelligence that--wool is down.