Puslapio vaizdai

"Or him that wicked pony's carried "To the dark cave, the goblins' 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,

And now she's got into the town,

And to the doctor's door she hies;
'Tis silence all on every side;

The town so long, the town so wide,
Is silent as the skies.

And now she's at the doctor's door,

She lifts the knocker, rap, rap, rap,

The doctor at the casement shews,

His glimmering eyes that peep and doze;
And one hand rubs his old night-cap.

"Oh Doctor! Doctor! where's my Johnny?" "I'm here, what is't you want with me?" "Oh Sir! you know I'm Betty Foy, "And I have lost my poor dear boy,

"You know him—him you often see;

"He's not so wise as some folks be,"

"The devil take his wisdom!" said

The Doctor, looking somewhat grim, "What, woman! should I know of him?" And, grumbling, he went back to bed.

"O woe is me! O woe is me!
"Here will I die; here will I die;
"I thought to find my Johnny here,
"But he is neither far nor near,

"Oh! what a wretched mother I!"

She stops, she stands, she looks about,
Which way to turn she cannot tell.
Poor Betty! it would ease her pain
If she had heart to knock again;

—The clock strikes three—a dismal knell !

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

This piteous news so much it shock'd 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 three-score;
"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 sound 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 pass'd,
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! carry back my idiot boy!


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

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