Lyrical Ballads, with Other Poems, 1800, Volume 1

THE DUNGEON

 
  And this place our forefathers made for man!
  This is the process of our love and wisdom
  To each poor brother who offends against us —
  Most innocent, perhaps – and what if guilty?
  Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
  Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up
  By ignorance and parching poverty,
  His energies roll back upon his heart,
  And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,
  They break out on him, like a loathsome plague spot.
  Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks —
  And this is their best cure! uncomforted.
 
 
  And friendless solitude, groaning and tears.
  And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
  Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,
  By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies
  Circled with evil, till his very soul
  Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed
  By sights of ever more deformity!
 
 
  With other ministrations thou, O nature!'
  Healest thy wandering and distempered child:
  Thou pourest on him thy soft influences.
  Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sheets,
  Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
  Till he relent, and can no more endure
  To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,
  Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
  But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
  His angry spirit healed and harmonized
  By the benignant touch of love and beauty.
 

SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN,

With an incident in which he was concerned

 
  In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
  Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
  An old man dwells, a little man,
  I've heard he once was tall.
  Of years he has upon his back,
  No doubt, a burthen weighty;
  He says he is three score and ten,
  But others say he's eighty.
 
 
  A long blue livery-coat has he,
  That's fair behind, and fair before;
  Yet, meet him where you will, you see
  At once that he is poor.
  Full five and twenty years he lived
  A running huntsman merry;
  And, though he has but one eye left,
  His cheek is like a cherry.
 
 
  No man like him the horn could sound,
  And no man was so full of glee;
  To say the least, four counties round.
  Had heard of Simon Lee;
  His master's dead, and no one now
  Dwells in the hall of Ivor;
  Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;
  He is the sole survivor.
 
 
  His hunting feats have him bereft
  Of his right eye, as you may see:
  And then, what limbs those feats have left
  To poor old Simon Lee!
  He has no son, he has no child,
  His wife, an aged woman,
  Lives with him, near the waterfall,
  Upon the village common.
 
 
  And he is lean and he is sick,
  His dwindled body's half awry,
  His ancles they are swoln and thick;
  His legs are thin and dry.
  When he was young he little knew
  'Of husbandry or tillage;
  And now he's forced to work, though weak,
  – The weakest in the village.
 
 
  He all the country could outrun,
  Could leave both man and horse behind;
  And often, ere the race was done,
  He reeled and was stone-blind.
  And still there's something in the world
  At which his heart rejoices;
  For when the chiming bounds are out,
  He dearly loves their voices!
 
 
  Old Ruth works out of doors with him.
  And does what Simon cannot do;
  For she, not over stout of limb,
  Is stouter of the two.
  And though you with your utmost skill
  From labour could not wean them,
  Alas! 'tis very little, all
  Which they can do between them.
 
 
  Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,
  Not twenty paces from the door,
  A scrap of land they have, but they
  Are poorest of the poor.
  This scrap of land he from the heath
  Enclosed when he was stronger;
  But what avails the land to them,
  Which they can till no longer?
 
 
  Few months of life has he in store,
  As he to you will-tell,
  For still, the more he works, the more
  His poor old ancles swell.
  My gentle reader, I perceive
  How patiently you've waited,
  And I'm afraid that you expect
  Some tale will be related.
 
 
  O reader! had you in your mind
  Such stores as silent thought can bring,
  O gentle reader! you would find
  A tale in every thing.
  What more I have to say is short,
  I hope you'll kindly take it;
  It is no tale; but should you think,
  Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
 
 
  One summer-day I chanced to see
  This old man doing all he could
  About the root of an old tree,
  A stump of rotten wood.
  The mattock totter'd in his hand;
  So vain was his endeavour
  That at the root of the old tree
  He might have worked for ever.
 
 
  "You've overtasked, good Simon Lee,
  Give me your tool" to him I said;
  And at the word right gladly he
  Received my proffer'd aid.
  I struck, and with a single blow
  The tangled root I sever'd,
  At which the poor old man so long
  And vainly had endeavoured.
 
 
  The tears into his eyes were brought,
  And thanks and praises seemed to run
  So fast out of his heart, I thought
  They never would have done.
  – I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds
  With coldness still returning.
  Alas! the gratitude of men
  Has oftner left me mourning.
 

LINES

Written in early Spring

 
  I heard a thousand blended notes,
  While in a grove I sate reclined,
  In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
  Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
 
 
  To her fair works did nature link
  The human soul that through me ran;
  And much it griev'd my heart to think
  What man has made of man.
 
 
  Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower,
  The periwinkle trail'd its wreathes;
  And 'tis my faith that every flower
  Enjoys the air it breathes.
 
 
  The birds around me hopp'd and play'd:
  Their thoughts I cannot measure,
  But the least motion which they made,
  It seem'd a thrill of pleasure.
 
 
  The budding twigs spread out their fan,
  To catch the breezy air;
  And I must think, do all I can,
  That there was pleasure there.
 
 
  If I these thoughts may not prevent,
  If such be of my creed the plan,
  Have I not reason to lament
  What man has made of man?
 

The NIGHTINGALE.

Written in April, 1798

 
  No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
  Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
  Of sullen Light, no obscure trembling hues.
  Come, we will rest on this old mossy Bridge!
  You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,
  But hear no murmuring: it flows silently
  O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,
  A balmy night! and tho' the stars be dim,
  Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
  That gladden the green earth, and we shall find
  A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
 
 
  And hark! the Nightingale begins its song
  "Most musical, most melancholy"³ Bird!
  A melancholy Bird? O idle thought!
  In nature there is nothing melancholy.
  – But some night wandering Man, whose heart was pierc'd
  With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
  Or slow distemper or neglected love,
  (And so, poor Wretch! fill'd all things with himself
  And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale
  Of his own sorrows) he and such as he
  First named these notes a melancholy strain:
  And many a poet echoes the conceit;
  Poet, who hath been building up the rhyme
  When he had better far have stretch'd his limbs
  Beside a 'brook in mossy forest-dell
  By sun or moonlight, to the influxes
  Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
  Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
  And of his fame forgetful! so his fame
  Should share in nature's immortality,
  A venerable thing! and so his song
  Should make all nature lovelier, and itself
  Be lov'd, like nature! – But 'twill not be so;
  And youths and maidens most poetical
  Who lose the deep'ning twilights of the spring
  In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still
  Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs
  O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.
  My Friend, and my Friend's Sister! we have learnt
  A different lore: we may not thus profane
  Nature's sweet voices always full of love
  And joyance! Tis the merry Nightingale
 
 
  That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
  With fast thick warble his delicious notes,
  As he were fearful, that an April night
  Would be too short for him to utter forth
  Hi? love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
  Of all its music! And I know a grove
  Of large extent, hard by a castle huge
  Which the great lord inhabits not: and so
  This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
  And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
  Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.
  But never elsewhere in one place I knew
  So many Nightingales: and far and near
  In wood and thicket over the wide grove
  They answer and provoke each other's songs —
  With skirmish and capricious passagings,
  And murmurs musical and swift jug jug
  And one low piping sound more sweet than all —
  Stirring the air with such an harmony,
  That should you close your eyes, you might almost
  Forget it was not day!
 
 
                         A most gentle maid
  Who dwelleth in her hospitable home
  Hard by the Castle, and at latest eve,
  (Even like a Lady vow'd and dedicate
  To something more than nature in the grove)
  Glides thro' the pathways; she knows all their notes,
  That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space,
  What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,
  Hath heard a pause of silence: till the Moon
  Emerging, hath awaken'd earth and sky
  With one sensation, and those wakeful Birds
  Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,
  At if one quick and sudden Gale had swept
  An hundred airy harps! And she hath watch'd
  Many a Nightingale perch giddily
  On blosmy twig still swinging from the breeze,
  And to that motion tune his wanton song,
  Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.
 
 
  Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,
  And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!
  We have been loitering long and pleasantly,
  And now for our dear homes. – That strain again!
  Full fain it would delay me! – My dear Babe,
  Who, capable of no articulate sound,
  Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
  How he would place his hand beside his ear,
  His little hand, the small forefinger up,
  And bid us listen! And I deem it wise
  To make him Nature's playmate. He knows well
  The evening star: and once when he awoke
  In most distressful mood (some inward pain
  Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream)
  I hurried with him to our orchard plot,
  And he beholds the moon, and hush'd at once
  Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
  While his fair eyes that swam with undropt tears
  Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well —
  It is a father's tale. But if that Heaven
  Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
  Familiar with these songs, that with the night
  He may associate Joy! Once more farewell,
  Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell.
 

LINES

Written when sailing in a Boat At EVENING

 
  How rich the wave, in front, imprest
  With evening twilights summer hues,
  While, facing thus the crimson west,
  The boat her silent path pursues!
  And see how dark the backward stream!
  A little moment past, so smiling!
  And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,
  Some other loiterer beguiling.
 
 
  Such views the youthful bard allure,
  But, heedless of the following gloom,
  He deems their colours shall endure
  'Till peace go with him to the tomb.
  – And let him nurse his fond deceit,
  And what if he must die in sorrow!
  Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,
  Though grief and pain may come to-morrow?
 

LINES

Written near Richmond upon the Thames

 
  Glide gently, thus for ever glide,
  O Thames! that other bards may see,
  As lovely visions by thy side
  As now, fair river! come to me.
  Oh glide, fair stream! for ever so;
  Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,
  'Till all our minds for ever flow,
  As thy deep waters now are flowing.
 
 
  Vain thought! yet be as now thou art,
  That in thy waters may be seen
  The image of a poet's heart,
  How bright, how solemn, how serene!
  Such as did once the poet bless,
  Who, pouring here a later ditty,
  Could find no refuge from distress,
  But in the milder grief of pity.
 
 
  Remembrance! as we float along,
  For him suspend the dashing oar,
  And pray that never child of Song
  May know his freezing sorrows more.
  How calm! how still! the only sound,
  The dripping of the oar suspended!
  – The evening darkness gathers round
  By virtue's holiest powers attended⁴.
 

THE IDIOT BOY

 
  'Tis eight o'clock, – a clear March night,
  The moon is up – the sky is blue,
  The owlet in the moonlight air,
  He shouts from nobody knows where;
  He lengthens out his lonely shout,
  Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!
 
 
  – Why bustle thus about your door,
  What means this bustle, Betty Foy?
  Why are you in this mighty fret?
  And why on horseback have you set
  Him whom you love, your idiot boy?
 
 
  Beneath the moon that shines so bright,
  Till she is tired, let Betty Foy
  With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle;
  But wherefore set upon a saddle
  Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?
 
 
  There's scarce a soul that's out of bed;
  Good Betty put him down again;
  His lips with joy they burr at you,
  But, Betty! what has he to do
  With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?
 
 
  The world will say 'tis very idle,
  Bethink you of the time of night;
  There's not a mother, no not one,
  But when she hears what you have done,
  Oh! Betty she'll be in a fright.
 
 
  But Betty's bent on her intent,
  For her good neighbour, Susan Gale,
  Old Susan, she who dwells alone,
  Is sick, and makes a piteous moan,
  As if her very life would fail.
 
 
  There's not a house within a mile,
  No hand to help them in distress;
  Old Susan lies a bed in pain,
  And sorely puzzled are the twain,
  For what she ails they cannot guess.
 
 
  And Betty's husband's at the wood,
  Where by the week he doth abide,
  A woodman in the distant vale;
  There's none to help poor Susan Gale,
  What must be done? what will betide?
 
 
  And Betty from the lane has fetched
  Her pony, that is mild and good,
  Whether he be in joy or pain,
  Feeding at will along the lane,
  Or bringing faggots from the wood.
 
 
  And he is all in travelling trim,
  And by the moonlight, Betty Foy
  Has up upon the saddle set,
  The like was never heard of yet,
  Him whom she loves, her idiot boy.
 
 
  And he must post without delay
  Across the bridge that's in the dale,
  And by the church, and o'er the down,
  To bring a doctor from the town,
  Or she will die, old Susan Gale.
 
 
  There is no need of boot or spur,
  There is no need of whip or wand,
  For Johnny has his holly-bough,
  And with a hurly-burly now
  He shakes the green bough in his hand.
 
 
  And Betty o'er and o'er has told
  The boy who is her best delight,
  Both what to follow, what to shun,
  What do, and what to leave undone,
  How turn to left, and how to right.
 
 
  And Betty's most especial charge,
  Was, "Johnny! Johnny! mind that you
  Come home again, nor stop at all,
  Come home again, whate'er befal,
  My Johnny do, I pray you do."
 
 
  To this did Johnny answer make,
  Both with his head, and with his hand,
  And proudly shook the bridle too,
  And then! his words were not a few,
  Which Betty well could understand.
 
 
  And now that Johnny is just going,
  Though Betty's in a mighty flurry,
  She gently pats the pony's side,
  On which her idiot boy must ride,
  And seems no longer in a hurry.
 
 
  But when the pony moved his legs,
  Oh! then for the poor idiot boy!
  For joy he cannot hold the bridle,
  For joy his head and heels are idle,
  He's idle all for very joy.
 
 
  And while the pony moves his legs,
  In Johnny's left hand you may see,
  The green bough's motionless and dead:
  The moon that shines above his head
  Is not more still and mute than he.
 
 
  His heart it was so full of glee,
  That till full fifty yards were gone,
  He quite forgot his holly whip,
  And all his skill in horsemanship,
  Oh! happy, happy, happy John.
 
 
  And Betty's standing at the door,
  And Betty's face with joy o'erflows,
  Proud of herself, and proud of him,
  She sees him in his travelling trim;
  How quietly her Johnny goes.
 
 
  The silence of her idiot boy,
  What hopes it sends to Betty's heart!
  He's at the guide-post – he turns right,
  She watches till he's out of sight,
  And Betty will not then depart.
 
 
  Burr, burr – now Johnny's lips they burr,
  As loud as any mill, or near it,
  Meek as a lamb the pony moves,
  And Johnny makes the noise he loves,
  And Betty listens, glad to hear it.
 
 
  Away she hies to Susan Gale:
  And Johnny's in a merry tune,
  The owlets hoot, the owlets purr,
  And Johnny's lips they burr, burr, burr,
  And on he goes beneath the moon.
 
 
  His steed and he right well agree,
  For of this pony there's a rumour,
  That should he lose his eyes and ears,
  And should he live a thousand years,
  He never will be out of humour.
 
 
  But then he is a horse that thinks!
  And when he thinks his pace is slack;
  Now, though he knows poor Johnny well,
  Yet for his life he cannot tell
  What he has got upon his back.
 
 
  So through the moonlight lanes they go,
  And far into the moonlight dale,
  And by the church, and o'er the down,
  To bring a doctor from the town,
  To comfort poor old Susan Gale.
 
 
  And Betty, now at Susan's side,
  Is in the middle of her story,
  What comfort Johnny soon will bring,
  With many a most diverting thing,
  Of Johnny's wit and Johnny's glory.
 
 
  And Betty's still at Susan's side:
  By this time she's not quite so flurried;
  Demure with porringer and plate
  She sits, as if in Susan's fate
  Her life and soul were buried.
 
 
  But Betty, poor good woman! she,
  You plainly in her face may read it,
  Could lend out of that moment's store
  Five years of happiness or more,
  To any that might need it.
 
 
  But yet I guess that now and then
  With Betty all was not so well,
  And to the road she turns her ears,
  And thence full many a sound she hears,
  Which she to Susan will not tell.
 
 
  Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans,
  "As sure as there's a moon in heaven,"
  Cries Betty, "he'll be back again;
  They'll both be here, 'tis almost ten,
  They'll both be here before eleven."
 
 
  Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans,
  The clock gives warning for eleven;
  'Tis on the stroke – "If Johnny's near,"
  Quoth Betty "he will soon be here,
  As sure as there's a moon in heaven."
 
 
  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."
 
 
  "Nay, 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."
 
 
  "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!
  Oh carry back my idiot boy!
  And we will ne'er o'erload thee more."
 
 
  A thought it come into her head;
  "The pony he is mild and good,
  And we have always used him well;
  Perhaps he's gone along the dell,
  And carried Johnny to the wood."
 
 
  Then up she springs as if on wings;
  She thinks no more of deadly sin;
  If Betty fifty ponds should see,
  The last of all her thoughts would be,
  To drown herself therein.
 
 
  Oh reader! now that I might tell
  What Johnny and his horse are doing!
  What they've been doing all this time,
  Oh could I put it into rhyme,
  A most delightful tale pursuing!
 
 
  Perhaps, and no unlikely thought!
  He with his pony now doth roam
  The cliffs and peaks so high that are,
  To lay his hands upon a star,
  And in his pocket bring it home.
 
 
  Perhaps he's turned himself about,
  His face unto his horse's tail,
  And still and mute, in wonder lost,
  All like a silent horse-man ghost,
  He travels on along the vale.
 
 
  And now, perhaps, he's hunting sheep,
  A fierce and dreadful hunter he!
  Yon valley, that's so trim and green,
  In five months' time, should he be seen,
  A desart wilderness will be.
 
 
  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:
  Oh gentle muses! let me tell
  But half of what to him befel,
  For sure he met with strange adventures.
 
 
  Oh gentle muses! is this kind
  Why will ye thus my suit repel?
  Why of your further aid bereave me?
  And can ye thus unfriended leave me?
  Ye muses! whom I love so well.
 
 
  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,
  Sits upright on a feeding horse?
 
 
  Unto his horse, that's feeding free,
  He seems, I think, the rein to give;
  Of moon or stars he takes no heed;
  Of such we in romances read,
  – Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.
 
 
  And that's the very pony too.
  Where is she, where is Betty Foy?
  She hardly can sustain her fears;
  The roaring water-fall she hears,
  And cannot find her idiot boy.
 
 
  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 screams – she cannot move for joy;
  She darts as with a torrent's force,
  She almost has o'erturned the horse,
  And fast she holds her idiot boy.
 
 
  And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud,
  Whether in cunning or in joy,
  I cannot tell; but while he laughs,
  Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs,
  To hear again her idiot boy.
 
 
  And now she's at the pony's tail,
  And now she's at the pony's head,
  On that side now, and now on this,
  And almost stifled with her bliss,
  A few sad tears does Betty shed.
 
 
  She kisses o'er and o'er again,
  Him whom she loves, her idiot boy,
  She's happy here, she's happy there.
  She is uneasy every where;
  Her limbs are all alive with joy.
 
 
  She pats the pony, where or when
  She knows not, happy Betty Foy!
  The little pony glad may be,
  But he is milder far than she,
  You hardly can perceive his joy.
 
 
  "Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor;
  You've done your best, and that is all."
  She took the reins, when this was said,
  And gently turned the pony's head
  From the loud water-fall.
 
 
  By this the stars were almost gone,
  The moon was setting on the hill,
  So pale you scarcely looked at her:
  The little birds began to stir,
  Though yet their tongues were still.
 
 
  The pony, Betty, and her boy,
  Wind slowly through the woody dale;
  And who is she, be-times abroad,
  That hobbles up the steep rough road?
  Who is it, but old Susan Gale?
 
 
  Long Susan lay deep lost in thought,
  And many dreadful fears beset her,
  Both for her messenger and nurse;
  And as her mind grew worse and worse,
  Her body it grew better.
 
 
  She turned, she toss'd herself in bed,
  On all sides doubts and terrors met her;
  Point after point did she discuss;
  And while her mind was fighting thus,
  Her body still grew better.
 
 
  "Alas! what is become of them?
  These fears can never be endured,
  I'll to the wood." – The word scarce said,
  Did Susan rise up from her bed,
  As if by magic cured.
 
 
  Away she posts up hill and down,
  And to the wood at length is come,
  She spies her friends, she shouts a greeting;
  Oh me! it is a merry meeting,
  As ever was in Christendom.
 
 
  The owls have hardly sung their last,
  While our four travellers homeward wend;
  The owls have hooted all night long,
  And with the owls began my song,
  And with the owls must end.
 
 
  For while they all were travelling home,
  Cried Betty, "Tell us Johnny, do,
  Where all this long night you have been,
  What you have heard, what you have seen,
  And Johnny, mind you tell us true."
 
 
  Now Johnny all night long had heard
  The owls in tuneful concert strive;
  No doubt too he the moon had seen;
  For in the moonlight he had been
  From eight o'clock till five.
 
 
  And thus to Betty's question, he,
  Made answer, like a traveller bold,
  (His very words I give to you,)
  "The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo,
  And the sun did shine so cold."
  – Thus answered Johnny in his glory,
  And that was all his travel's story.