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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 ber :
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 tossed 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,
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.
All Thoughts, all Passions, all Delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal Frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the Mount I lay
Beside the Ruined Tower.
The Moonshine stealing o'er the scene Had blended with the Lights of Eve; And she was there, my Hope, my Joy,
My own dear Genevieve!