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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 Johnný 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,

134

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.

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