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Ah me! what lovely tints are there !
Now would you see this aged thorn,
your time The mountain when to cross. For oft there sits, between the heap
That's like an infant's grave in size, And that same pond of which I spoke, A woman in a scarlet cloak, And to herself she cries, “ Oh misery! oh inisery! "Oh woe is me! oh misery!"
wind that blows; And there beside the thorn she sits When the blue day-light's in the skies, And when the whirlwind's on the hill, Or frosty air is keen and still, And to herself she cries, “ Oh misery ! oh misery ! “ Oh woe is me! oh misery !"
Now wherefore thus, by day and night, rt In rain, in tempest, and in snow, « Thus to the dreary mountain-top “ Does this poor woman go ? "And why sits she beside the thorn “ When the blue day-light's in the sky, « Or when the whirlwind's on the hill, " Or frosty air is keen and still, " And wherefore does she cry
?— " Oh wherefore? wherefore ? tell me why “ Does she repeat that doleful cry?"
I cannot tell ; I wish I could ;
The pond- and thorn, so old and grey,
X. * But wherefore to the mountain-top " Can this unhappy woman go, “ Whatever star is in the skies, - Whatever wind
blow?" Nay rack your brain—'tis all in vain, I'll tell you every thing I know ; But to the thorn, and to the pond Which is a little step beyond, I wish that you would go : Perhaps when you are at the place You something of her tale may trace,
I'll give you the best help I can :
all I know. 'Tis now some two and twenty years, Since she (her name is Martha Ray) Gave with a maiden's true good will Her company to Stephen Hill; And she was blithe and gay, And she was happy, happy still Whene'er she thought of Stephen Hill.
And they had fix'd the wedding-day,