But though my heart is buried in his grave Something might be--friendship and utter trust-- And you, my dear starved little Jim shall have Flowers of friendship from my dead heart’s dust; Life would be sweet if men would never lust. Why do you, Jimmy? Tell me sometime, dear, Why men are always what we women fear. Not now. Good-bye; we understand, we two, And life, O Jim, how glorious life is; This sunshine in my heart is due to you; I was so sad, and life has given this. I think "I wish I had something of his," Do give me something, will you be so kind? Something to keep you always in my mind. ’I will,’ he said. ’Now go, or you’ll be late.’ He broke from her and ran, and never dreamt That as she stood to watch him from the gate Her heart was half amusement, half contempt, Comparing Jim the squab, red and unkempt, In sweaty corduroys, with Shepherd Ern. She blew him kisses till he passed the turn. The whistle blew before he reached the line; The foreman asked him what the hell he meant, Whether a duke had asked him out to dine, Or if he thought the bag would pay his rent? And Jim was fined before the foreman went. But still his spirit glowed from Anna’s words, Cooed in the voice so like a singing bird’s. ’O Anna, darling, you shall have a present; I’d give you golden gems if I were rich, And everything that’s sweet and all that’s pleasant.’ He dropped his pick as though he had a stitch, And stared tow’rds Plaister’s End, past Bushe’s Pitch. O beauty, what I have to give I’ll give, All mine is yours, beloved, while I live.’ All through the afternoon his pick was slacking, His eyes were always turning west and south, The foreman was inclined to send him packing, But put it down to after fair-day drouth; He looked at Jimmy with an ugly mouth, And Jimmy slacked, and muttered in a moan, ’My love, my beautiful, my very own.’ So she had loved. Another man had had her; She had been his with passion in the night; An agony of envy made him sadder, Yet stabbed a pang of bitter-sweet delight-- O he would keep his image of her white. The foreman cursed, stepped up, and asked him flat What kind of gum-tree he was gaping at. It was Jim’s custom, when the pay day came, To take his weekly five and twenty shilling Back in the little packet to his dame; Not taking out a farthing for a filling, Nor twopence for a pot, for he was willing That she should have it all to save or spend. But love makes many lovely customs end. Next pay day came and Jimmy took the money, But not to mother, for he meant to buy A thirteen-shilling locket for his honey, Whatever bellies hungered and went dry, A silver heart-shape with a ruby eye. He bought the thing and paid the shopman’s price, And hurried off to make the sacrifice.