While The Billy BoilsSearchThe nearer camp fires lighted,The distant beacons bright—The horsemen on the skylineAre closing in to-night!My brothers, Oh my brothers!Lie down and rest at last—The Years of ReparationHave rushed upon us fast.
Oh, ride and ride, you riders,Who rode ere I was born,While blink-and-blink the star-dustThat blinks before the morn.And glow and glow you camp fires,And flash, you beacons bright!They’re riding round the wronged onesAnd riding round the right!
My brothers, Oh my brothers!With dried and haggard eyes,In gaol for just blows stricken—In gaol for women’s lies!Lie down and pace no longerBut bathe your eyes in tearsFor Years of RetributionThat shall be seven years!
Their lovers and believers!Their sweethearts, sisters, wives,Their daughters, sons and mothers,The true friends of their lives!Hold up your heads and firmlyLook down the Crooked SeersFor Years of JustifyingThat shall be seven years.
Inventors, artists, poets—Exiled or driven mad,Sweated, sneered at, slandered,And driven to the bad—Take up the tools of genius,Freed from all paltry fears,For Seasons of RepaymentThat shall be seven years.
Oh, ride and ride, you riders,That rode when I was bornAgainst a ghastly skylineBeneath a storm-cloud torn!I watched you through my childhood,I saw the whip and spur,No spy’s glass could detect youBut I knew what you were!
Oh, ride and ride, my riders,And flash my birth star bright!The youth I never dreamed ofIs with me here to-night!The hearing, strength and vision,The will to do and dare,The love I ever longed forIs round me everywhere.
Dead Friendship—ah! Dead Friendship,Rise up and breathe again—I ride my rounds re-honouredAlong the ranks of men.My old mates, Oh! my old mates,Who fought the cur and brute—My horsemen from the skylineAre drawn up to salute!
My Dead Love, Oh! my Dead Love,Who died for love of me—Who sleeps amongst the poetsSince five years sobbed the sea.Since five years blackened honourAnd cramped and warped the pen—There’s glory to your spiritThe laurel leafs again.
My enemies, the causelessOf vicious mysteries,Or mad with jealous madness—Or for the crawler’s fees—Fear ye my Cypher Seven!For seven years to run—The number set by HeavenWhen Heaven’s will is done.
So ride and ride, my riders,And ride for men and me,Ride close round madness yonderAnd blackest treachery!Oh! ride round little childrenThat sleep through all and smile!—At daybreak I will lead you—Now I must rest awhile.