Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

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by William Wordsworth


  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 on the well-girt saddle set

  (The like was never heard of yet)40

  Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy.

  And he must post without delay

  Across the bridge and through 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 50

  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 befall, 60

  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, 70

  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 motionless and dead:

  The Moon that shines above his head 80

  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 while the Mother, at the door,

  Stands fixed, her face with joy o’erflows,

  Proud of herself, and proud of him,

  She sees him in his travelling trim, 90

  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, 100

  And Betty listens, glad to hear it.

  Away she hies to Susan Gale:

  Her Messenger’s in merry tune;

  The owlets hoot, the owlets curr,

  And Johnny’s lips they burr, burr, burr,

  As 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, 110

  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, 120

  To comfort poor old Susan Gale.

  And Betty, now at Susan’s side,

  Is in the middle of her story,

  What speedy help her Boy will bring,

  With many a most diverting thing,

  Of Johnny’s wit, and Johnny’s glory.

  And Betty, still at Susan’s side,

  By this time is not quite so flurried:

  Demure with porringer and plate

  She sits, as if in Susan’s fate 130

  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, 140

  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—

  Both will be here before eleven.”

  Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans;

  The clock gives warning for eleven;

  ‘Tis on the stroke—”He must be near,”

  Quoth Betty, “and will soon be here, 150

  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; 160

  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! 170

  —She’s in a sad ‘quandary’.

  The clock is on the stroke of one;

  But neither Doctor nor his Guide

  Appears along the moonlight road;

  There’s neither horse nor man abroad,

  And Betty’s still at Susan’s side.

  And Susan now begins to fear

  Of sad mischances not a few,

  That Johnny may perhaps be drowned;

  Or lost, perhaps, and never found; 180

  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”—190

  “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, 200

  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; 210

  ‘Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.

  And while she crossed the bridge, there came

  A thought with which her heart is sore—

  Johnny perhaps his horse forsook,

  To hunt the moon within the brook,

  And never will be heard of more.

  Now is she high upon the down,

  Alone amid a prospect wide;

  There’s neither Johnny nor his Horse

  Among the fern or in the gorse; 220

  There’s neither Doctor nor his Guide.

  “O 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 gipsy-folk.

  “Or him that wicked Pony’s carried

  To the dark cave, the goblin’s hall;

  Or in the castle he’s pursuing

  Among the ghosts his own undoing; 230

  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 could hardly spare:

  Unworthy things she talked, and wild;

  Even he, of cattle the most mild, 240

  The Pony had his share.

  But now she’s fairly in 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 shows

  His glimmering eyes that peep and doze! 250

  And one hand rubs his old night-cap.

  “O Doctor! Doctor! where’s my Johnny?”

  “I’m here, what is’t you want with me?”

  “O 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?” 260

  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 lost one 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; 270

  —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 shocked 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:

  “O cruel! I’m almost threescore;

  Such night as this was ne’er before, 280

  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, 290

  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 past,

  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! 300

  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 310

  To drown herself therein.

  O 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, 320

  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 silent as a horseman-ghost,

  He travels slowly down the vale.

  And now, perhaps, is hunting sheep,

  A fierce and dreadful hunter he;

  Yon valley, now so trim and green,

  In five months’ time, should he be seen, 330

  A desert wilderness will be!

  Perhaps, with head and heels on fire,

  And like the very soul of evil,

  He’s galloping away, away,

  And so will 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:

  O gentle Muses! let me tell

  But half of what to him befell; 340

  He surely met with strange adventures.

  O 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, 350

  Sits upright on a feeding horse?

  Unto his horse—there 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 waterfall she hears, 360

  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, 370

  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 380

  To hear again her Idiot Boy.

  And now she’s at the Pony’s tail,

  And now is 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, is happy there,

  She is uneasy every where; 390

  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 400

  From the loud waterfall.

  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, betimes abroad,

  That hobbles up the steep rough road? 410

  Who is it, but old Susan Gale?

  Long time lay Susan 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, 420

  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,

 

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