Lyrical Ballads, With a Few Other Poems (1798) Part 12

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 is 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 horseman-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 s.h.i.+ning 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 c.o.c.ks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, "And the sun did s.h.i.+ne so cold."

--Thus answered Johnny in his glory, And that was all his travel's story.

LINES WRITTEN NEAR RICHMOND, UPON THE THAMES, AT EVENING.

How rich the wave, in front, imprest With evening-twilight's 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?

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 heart did once the poet bless, Who, pouring here a[3] _later_ ditty, Could find no refuge from distress, But in the milder grief of pity.