While The Billy BoilsSearchThe Bree was up; the floods were outAround the hut of Culgo Jim:The hand of God had broke the droughtAnd filled the channels to the brim:The outline of the hut loomed dimAmong the shades of murmurous pine,That eve of good Saint Valentine.
He watched, and to his sleepy gazeThe dying embers of the fire,Its yellow reds and pearly greys,Made pictures of his younger days.Outside the waters mounted higherBeneath a half-moon’s sickly shine,That eve of good Saint Valentine.
There, in the great slab fire-placeThe oak log, burnt away to coal,Showed him the semblance of a faceFramed in a golden aureole:Eyes, the clear windows of a soul —Soul of a maid, who used to signHerself, ‘Jim, dear, your Valentine.’
Lips, whose pink curves were made to bearLove’s kisses, not to be the mockOf grave-worms … Suddenly a whirr,And twelve loud strokes upon the clock;Then at the door a gentle knock.The collie dog began to whineThat morn of good Saint Valentine.
He opened; by his heels the houndSniffed at the night. ‘Who comes, and why?What? no one! Hush! was that a sound?Methought I heard a human cry.Bah! ’twas a curlew passing byOut where the lignum bushes twine,This morn of good Saint Valentine.
‘What ails the dog? Down, Stumpy, down!No? Well, lead on, perchance a sheepIt is, poor brute, that fears to drown.Heavens! how chill the waters creep!Why, Stumpy, do you splash and leap?’Tis but a foolish quest of thine,This morn of good Saint Valentine.
‘Nay, not so foolish as I thought …Hark! ’mid those reeds a feeble scream!Mother of God! a cradle — broughtDown from some homestead up the stream!A white-robed baby! Do I dream?No, ’tis that dear dead love of mineWho sends me thus a Valentine!’