While The Billy BoilsSearchWe set no right above hers,No earthly light nor star,She hath had many lovers,But not as lovers are:They all were gallant fellowsAnd died all deaths for her,And never one was jealousBut comrades true they were.
Oh! each one is a brother,Though all the lands they claim—For her or for each otherThey’ve died all deaths the sameYoung, handsome, old and ugly,Free, married or divorced,Where springtime bard or Thug lieHer lover’s feet have crossed.
’Mid buttercups and daisiesWith fair girls by their side,Young poets sang her praisesWhile day in starlight died.In smoke and fire and dust, andWith red eyes maniac like,Those same young poets thrust and—Wrenched out the reeking pike!
She is as old as ages,But she is ever young.Upon her birthday pagesThey’ve writ in every tongue;Her charms have never vanishedNor beauty been defiled,Her lovers ne’er were banished—Can never be exiled.
Ah! thousands died who kissed her,But millions died who scornedOur Sweetheart, Queen and Sister,Whom slaves and Cæsars spurned!And thousands lost her for herOwn sweet sake, and the world,Her first most dread adorer,From Heaven’s high state was hurled.
No sign of power she beareth,In silence doth she tread,But evermore she wearethA cap of red rose red.Her hair is like the raven,Her soul is like the sea,Her blue eyes are a havenThat watch Eternity.
She claimed her right from Heaven,She claims her right from earth,She claimed it hell-ward driven,Before her second birth.No real man lives without her,No real man-child thrives,Sweet sin may cling about her,But purity survives.
She claims the careless girl, andShe claims the master mind;She whispers to the Earl, andShe whispers to the hind!No ruler knoweth which manHis sword for her might draw;Her whisper wakes the rich man—The peasant on his straw.
She calls us from the prison,She calls us from the plain,To towns where men have risenAgain, again, again!She calls us from our pleasures,She calls us from our cares,She calls us from our treasures,She calls us from our prayers.
From seas and oceans overOur long-lost sons she draws,She calls the careless rover,She calls us from our wars.The hermit she discoversTo lead her bravest brave——The spirit of dead lovers,She calls them from the grave!
We leave the squalid alley,Our women and our vice,We leave the pleasant valley,Life-lust or sacrifice.The gold hunt in the mountains,The power-lust on the sea,The land-lust by earth’s fountains,Defeat or victory.
No means of peace discoverHer strength on “Nights Before”,She has her secret loverThat guards the Grand Duke’s door.No power can resist hers,No massacre deter—Small brothers and wee sistersOf lovers, watch for her!
Old dotards undetected,School boys that never tire,And lone hags unsuspectedThat drone beside the fire.The youth in love’s first passion,The girl in day-dream mood,And, in the height of fashion,The “butterfly” and “dude”.
The millionaire heart-broken,The beggar with his whine,And each one hath a token,And each one hath a sign.And when the time is ripe andThe hells of earth in power,The dotard drops his pipe, and—The maiden drops a flower!
Oh, bloody our revivals!And swift our vengeance hurled,We’ve laid our dear-loved rivalsIn trenches round the world!We’ve flung off fair arms clinging,Health, wealth, and life’s grand whole,And marched out to her singing,A passion of our soul.
Her lovers fought on ice fieldsWith stone clubs long ago,Her lovers slave in rice fieldsAnd in the “’lectric’s” glow.Her lovers pine whereverThe lust for Nothing is,They starve where light is never,And starve in palaces.
They’ve gathered, crowded and scattered,With heads and scythe-blades low,Through fir and pine clump spattered,Like ink blots on the snow.With broken limbs and shatteredThey’ve crushed like hunted brute,And died in hellish tortureIn holes beneath the roof.
They’ve coursed through streets of citiesThe fleeing Parliaments,And songs that were not dittiesThey’ve sung by smouldering tents.And trained in caps and sashesThey’ve heard the head drums roll,They’ve danced on kings-blood splashesThe dreadful carmagnole.
By mountains, and by stations,Out where wide levels are,They’ve baulked the march of nationsAnd ridden lone and far.The whip stroke of the bullet,The short grunt of distress—The saddled pony grazingAlone and riderless.
The plain in sunlight blazing—No signal of distress,Unseen by far scouts gazing,And still, with wide eyes glazing:Dead lover of our mistress,Dead comrade of his rivals,Dead champion of his country,Dead soldier of his widowAnd of his fatherless.
She pauses by her writers,And whispers, through the years,The poems that delight usAnd bring the glorious tears.The song goes on unbrokenThrough worlds of senseless drones,Until the words are spokenBy Emperors on their thrones.