The clock is on the stroke of twelve, And Johnny is not yet in sight,

The moon's in heaven, as Betty sees,

But Betty is not quite at ease;

And Susan has a dreadful night.

And Betty, half an hour ago,
On Johnny vile reflections cast;
"A little idle sauntering thing!"
With other names, an endless string,
But now that time is gone and past.

And Betty's drooping at the heart, That happy time all past and gone, "How can it be he is so late?

"The doctor he has made him wait, "Susan! they'll both be here anon."

And Susan's growing worse and worse,

And Betty's in a sad quandary ;

And then there's nobody to say

If she must go or she must stay:
—She's in a sad quandary.

The clock is on the stroke of one; But neither Doctor nor his guide Appear along the moonlight road, There's neither horse nor man abroad,

And Betty's still at Susan's side.

And Susan she begins to fear

Of sad mischances not a few,
That Johnny may perhaps be drown'd,
Or lost perhaps, and never found;
Which they must both for ever rue.

She prefaced half a hint of this

With, "God forbid it should be true!" At the first word that Susan said

Cried Betty, rising from the bed, "Susan, I'd gladly stay with you.

"I must be gone, I must away,

Consider, Johnny's but half-wise; "Susan, we must take care of him, "If he is hurt in life or limb"— "Oh God forbid!" poor Susan cries.

"What can I do?" says Betty, going, "What can I do to ease your pain? "Good Susan tell me, and I'll stay; "I fear you're in a dreadful way, "But I shall soon be back again."

"Good Betty go, good Betty go, "There's nothing that can ease my pain." Then off she hies, but with a prayer

That God poor Susan's life would spare, Till she comes back again.

So, through the moonlight lane she goes, And far into the moonlight dale;

And how she ran, and how she walked, And all that to herself she talked,

Would surely be a tedious tale.

In high and low, above, below,
In great and small, in round and square,
In tree and tower was Johnny seen,

In bush and brake, in black and green, 'Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.

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.