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“ 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 nori near,
« Oh! what a wretched mother I!”

She stops, she stands, she looks about, : Which


to turn she cannot tell. Poor Betty! it would ease her pain. If she had heart to knock again; The clock strikes three-ma dismal knell!

Then up along the town she hies,
No wonder if her sesises fail,
This piteous news so much it shock'd her,
She quite forgot to send the Doctor,
To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

Asid 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 poney! my sweet joy!
" Oh carry back my Idiot boy!
66 And we will ne'er o'erload thee more."

A thought is come into her head;
s. The poney 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 poney 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 horseman-ghost,
He travels on along the vale.

And now, perhaps, he's hunting sheep,
A fierce and dreadful hunter he!
Yon valley, thats so trim and green,
In five month's time, should he be seen,
A desart wilderness will be.

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Perhaps with head and heels on fire,
And like the very soul of evil,
He's galloping away, away!

1">$:!! And so he'll gallop on for

aye, The bane of all that dread the devil.

I to the Muses haye 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.

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that near the water-fall 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 poney 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 poney's worth his weight in gold,
Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy!
She's coming from among
And now, all full in view, she sees
Him whom she loves, her Idiot boy.

the trees,

And Betty sees the poney 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 torrents' force,
She almost has o'erturn'd the horse,
And fast she holds her Idiot boy,

And Johnny burss 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,

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