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Perhaps, and no unlikely thought!
Perhaps he's turned himself about,
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: O gentle Muses! let me tell
But half of what to him befel,
He surely met with strange adventures.
O gentle Muses! is this kind?
Who's yon, that, near the waterfall,
Which thunders down with headlong force,
Beneath the Moon, yet shining fair,
As careless as if nothing were,
Unto his Horse, that's feeding free,
-'Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.
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? It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost,
'Tis he whom you so long have lost,
He whom you love, your Idiot Boy.
She looks again-her arms are up-
She darts, as with a torrent's force,
And fast she holds her Idiot Boy.
And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud,
I cannot tell; but while he laughs,
And now she's at the Pony's tail,
She kisses o'er and o'er again,
She's happy here, she's happy there,
Her limbs are all alive with joy.