While The Billy BoilsSearchYes! there it hangs upon the wallAnd never gives a sound:The hand that trimmed its greenhide fallIs hidden underground—There, in that patch of sallee shade,Beneath that grassy mound.
I never take it from the wall:That whip belonged to him—The man I singled from them all:He was my husband, Jim.I see him now—so straight and tall,So long and lithe of limb.
That whip was with him night and dayWhen he was on the track:I've often heard him laugh and sayThat when they heard it crack,After the breaking of the drought,The cattle all came back.
And all the time that Jim was here,A-working on the run,I'd hear that whip ring sharp and clearJust about set of sun,To let me know that he was nearAnd that his work was done.
I was away that afternoon,Penning the calves, when—bang!I heard his whip: 'twas rather soon:A thousand echoes rangAnd died away among the hills,As toward the hut I sprang.
I made the tea and waited, but,Seized by a sudden whim,I went and sat outside the hutAnd watched the light grow dim:I waited there till after dark,But not a sign of Jim.
The evening air was damp with dew:Just as the clock struck tenHis horse came riderless—I knewWhat was the matter then...Why should the Lord have singled outMy Jim from other men?
I took the horse and found him whereHe lay beneath the sky,With blood all clotted in his hair.I felt too dazed to cry:I held him to me as I prayedTo God that I might die.
But sometimes now I seem to hear—Just when the air grows chill—A single whip-crack, sharp and clear,Re-echo from the hill.That's Jim! to let me know he's nearAnd thinking of me still.