She's past the bridge that's in the dale, And now the thought torments her sore, Johnny perhaps his horse forsook, To hunt the moon that's in the brook, And never will be heard of more. And now she's high upon the down, There's neither Johnny nor his Horse Among the fern or in the gorse; There's neither Doctor nor his Guide. "Oh saints! what is become of him? Perhaps he's climbed into an oak, Where he will stay till he is dead; And joined the wandering gypsey-folk. Or him that wicked Pony's carried To the dark cave, the goblin's hall; Among the ghosts his own undoing; At poor old Susan then she railed, While to the town she posts away; "If Susan had not been so ill, Alas! I should have had him still. My Johnny, till my dying day." Poor Betty! in this sad distemper, Even he, of cattle the most mild, 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, 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. 119 The Owlets through the long blue night Fond lovers! yet not quite hob nob, That echoes far from hill to hill. Poor Betty now has lost all hope, And now she sits her down and weeps; 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, 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. |