Then up along the town she hies,

No wonder if her senses fail,

This piteous news so much it shocked her,

She quite forgot to send the Doctor,

To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

And now she's high upon the down,
And she can see a mile of road;
"Oh cruel! I'm almost threescore;

Such night as this was ne'er before,
There's not a single soul abroad.”

She listens, but she cannot hear

The foot of horse, the voice of man;

The streams with softest sounds are flowing,

The grass you almost hear it growing,

You hear it now if e'er you can.

The Owlets through the long blue night
Are shouting to each other still:

Fond lovers! yet not quite hob nob,
They lengthen out the tremulous sob,

That echoes far from hill to hill.

Poor Betty now has lost all hope,
Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin :
A green-grown pond she just has passed,
And from the brink she hurries fast,
Lest she should drown herself therein.

And now she sits her down and weeps ;
Such tears she never shed before;
"Oh dear, dear Pony! my sweet joy!
Oh carry back my Idiot. Boy!

And we will ne'er o'erload thee more."

Then up along the town she hies,
No wonder if her senses fail,

This piteous news so much it shocked her,
She quite forgot to send the Doctor,

To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

And now she's high upon the down,
And she can see a mile of road;
"Oh cruel! I'm almost threescore;

Such night as this was ne'er before,

There's not a single soul abroad.”

She listens, but she cannot hear

The foot of horse, the voice of man;

The streams with softest sounds are flowing,

The grass you almost hear it growing,

You hear it now if e'er you can.

The Owlets through the long blue night
Are shouting to each other still:

Fond lovers! yet not quite hob nob,
They lengthen out the tremulous sob,

That echoes far from hill to hill.

Poor Betty now has lost all hope,
Her thoughts are bent on deadly sin :
A green-grown pond she just has passed,
And from the brink she hurries fast,
Lest she should drown herself therein.

And now she sits her down and weeps;
Such tears she never shed before;
"Oh dear, dear Pony! my sweet joy!
Oh carry back my Idiot. Boy!

And we will ne'er o'erload thee more."

་

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 along the dell,
And carried Johnny to the wood."

Then up she springs, as if on wings;
She thinks no more of deadly sin;
If Betty fifty ponds should see,

The last of all her thoughts would be,
To drown herself therein.

O Reader! now that I might tell
What Johnny and his Horse are doing!
What they've been doing all this time,
Oh could I put it into rhyme,
A most delightful tale pursuing!

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