The pony, Betty, and her boy,
Wind slowly through the woody dale :
And who is she, be-times abroad,

That hobbles up the steep rough road?
Who is it, but old Susan Gale?

Long Susan lay deep lost in thought,
And many dreadful fears beset her,

Both for her messenger and nurse;
And as her mind grew worse and worse.

Her body it grew better.

She turned, she toss'd herself in bed,
On all sides doubts and terrors met her;

Point after point did she discuss ;

And while her mind was fighting thus, Her body still grew better.

"Alas! what is become of them?

"These fears can never be endured,

"I'll to the wood."—The word scarce said.

Did Susan rise up from her bed,
As if by magic cured.

Away she posts up hill and down,
And to the wood at length is come,

She spies her friends, she shouts a greeting;

Oh me! it is a merry meeting,

As ever was in Christendom.

The owls have hardly sung their last, While our four travellers homeward wend; The owls have hooted all night long,

And with the owls began my song,

And with the owls must end.

For while they all were travelling home,
Cried Betty, "Tell us Johnny, do,

"Where all this long night you have been,
66 What you have heard, what you have seen,
"And Johnny, mind you tell us true."

Now Johnny all night long had heard
The owls in tuneful concert strive;
No doubt too he the moon had seen;
For in the moonlight he had been
From eight o'clock till five.

And thus to Betty's question, he

Made answer, like a traveller bold,

(His very words I give to you,)

"The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo,

"And the sun did shine so cold."

-Thus answered Johnny in his glory,"

And that was all his travel's story.

LINES

WRITTEN NEAR RICHMOND, UPON THE THAMES,

AT EVENING.

How rich the ware, in front, imprest

With evening-twilight's summer hues,
While, facing thus the crimson west,
The boat her silent path pursues!

And see how dark the backward stream !
A little moment past, so smiling!

1

And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,
Some other loiterer beguiling.

Such views the youthful bard allure,
But, heedless of the following gloom,
He deems their colours shall endure
'Till peace go with him to the tomb.
—And let him nurse his fond deceit,
And what if he must die in sorrow!

Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,

O Thames! that other bards may see,

As lovely visions by thy side

As now, fair river! come to me.

Oh glide, fair stream! for ever so;
Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
'Till all our minds for ever flow,

As thy deep waters now are flowing.