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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,
Alone amid a prospect wide;

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;
Or, sadly he has been misled,

And joined the wandering gypsey-folk.

Or him that wicked Pony's carried

To the dark cave, the goblin's hall;
Or in the castle he's pursuing,

Among the ghosts his own undoing;
Or playing with the waterfall."

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,
The Doctor's self would hardly spare,
Unworthy things she talked and wild,

Even he, of cattle the most mild,
The Pony had his share.

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.

119

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.

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