While The Billy BoilsSearchWhen the north wind moans thro’ the blind creek coursesAnd revels with harsh, hot sand,I loose the horses, the wild, red horses,I loose the horses, the mad, red horses,And terror is on the land.
With prophetic murmur the hills are humming,The forest-kings bend and blow;With hoofs of brass on the baked earth drumming,O brave red horses, they hear us coming,And the legions of Death lean low.
O’er the wooded height, and the sandy hollowWhere the boles to the axe have rung,Tho’ they fly the foeman as flies the swallow,The fierce red horses, my horses, followWith flanks to the faint earth flung.
Or with frenzied hieroglyphs, fear embossingNight’s sable horizon bars,Thro’ tangled mazes of death-darts crossing,I swing my leaders and watch them tossingTheir red manes against the stars.
But when South winds sob in the drowned creek coursesAnd whisper to hard wet sand,I hold the horses, the spent red horses,I hold the horses, the tired red horses,And silence is on the land.
Yea, the South wind sobs ’mong the drowned creek coursesFor sorrows no man shall bind —Ah, God! for the horses, the black plumed horses,Dear God! for the horses, Death’s own pale horses,That raced in the tracks behind.