A thought is come into her head; "The pony he is mild and good, "And we have always used him well; "Perhaps he's gone a ong the dell, "And carried Johnny to the wood." Then up she springs as if on wings; The last of all her thoughts would be, To drown herself therein. Oh reader! now that I might tell Perhaps, and no unlikely thought! And in his pocket bring it home. Perhaps he's turned himself about, His face unto his horse's tail, And still and mute, in wonder lost, He travels on along the vale. And now, perhaps, he's hunting sheep, Yon valley, that's so trim and green, Perhaps, with head and heels on fire, And like the very soul of evil, He's galloping away, away, And so he'll gallop on for aye, The bane of all that dread the devil. I to the muses have been bound, These fourteen years, by strong indentures; Oh gentle muses! let me tell But half of what to him befel, For sure he met with strange adventures. Oh gentle muses! is this kind? Why will ye thus my suit repel? Why of your further aid bereave me? And can ye thus unfriended leave me? Ye muses! whom I love so well. Who's yon, that, near the waterfall, As careless as if nothing were, Unto his horse, that's feeding free, And that's the very pony too. Your pony's worth his weight in gold, Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy! She's coming from among the trees, And now, all full in view, she sees Him whom she loves, her idiot boy. And Betty sees the pony too : Why stand you thus Good Betty Foy? She looks again—her arms are up— |