While The Billy BoilsSearchNone ever knew his name—Honoured, or one of shame, Highborn or lowly;Only upon that treeTwo letters,J and C,Carved by him, mark where he Lay dying slowly.
Why came he to the West?Had then the parent nest Grown so distasteful?What cause had he to shunLife, ere 'twas well begun?Was he that youngest son, Of substance wasteful?
Were Fate and he at war?Was it a penance, or Renunciation?Is it a glad release?Has he at length found peace,Now Death hath bid him cease Peregrination?
Hands white, without a blot,Told us that he was not One of 'the vulgar.'What can those cyphers be?—Two only, J and C,Carved in his agony Deep in the mulga.
Was there no woman's faceWhose sunny smile might chase Clouds from above him?No bosom white as snow?No lips to whisper low,'Why doth he seek to go? Do I not love him?'
Haunted by flashing charms—White bosoms, rounded arms, Lips of fair ladies—Striving to break some link:Was 't that which made him sink,Dragged by the curse of drink Deeper than Hades?
Now, wind across the grave,Tuning a sultry stave, Drearily whistles;Stirring those branches whereTwo silent cyphers stare—Two letters of a prayer: God's Son's initials.