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XVIII.

I did not speak-I saw her face;
Her face!—it was enough for me;
I turned about and heard her cry,
'Oh misery! oh misery!'

And there she sits, until the moon
Through half the clear blue sky will go;
And, when the little breezes make

The waters of the pond to shake,

As all the country know,

She shudders, and

you

hear her cry,

'Oh misery! oh misery!""

XIX.

"But what's the Thorn? and what the pond?

And what the hill of moss to her?

And what the creeping breeze that comes

The little pond to stir ?"

“I cannot tell; but some will say

She hanged her Baby on the tree ;

Some say

she drowned it in the pond, Which is a little step beyond:

But all and each agree,

The little Babe was buried there,

Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

XX.

I've heard, the moss is spotted red With drops of that poor infant's blood; But kill a new-born infant thus,

I do not think she could!

Some say, if to the pond you go,
And fix on it a steady view,
The shadow of a babe you trace,
A baby and a baby's face,

And that it looks at you;

Whene'er you look on it, 'tis plain
The baby looks at you again.

XXI.

And some had sworn an oath that she
Should be to public justice brought;
And for the little infant's bones
With spades they would have sought.
But then the speckled hill of moss
Before their eyes began to stir!
And, for full fifty yards around,
The grass-it shook upon the ground!
Yet all do still aver

The little Babe is buried there,

Beneath that hill of moss so fair.

XXII.

I cannot tell how this may be :
But plain it is, the Thorn is bound
With heavy tufts of moss that strive
To drag it to the ground;

And this I know, full many a time,
When she was on the mountain high,
By day, and in the silent night,

When all the stars shone clear and bright,

That I have heard her cry,

'Oh misery! oh misery!

Oh woe is me! oh misery!""

XX.

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL.

A TRUE STORY.

1798.

OH! what's the matter? what's the matter?

What is 't that ails young Harry Gill?
That evermore his teeth they chatter,
Chatter, chatter, chatter still!
Of waistcoats Harry has no lack,
Good duffle grey, and flannel fine ;
He has a blanket on his back,
And coats enough to smother nine.

In March, December, and in July,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
The neighbours tell, and tell you truly,
His teeth they chatter, chatter still.
At night, at morning, and at noon,
'Tis all the same with Harry Gill;
Beneath the beneath the moon,

sun,

His teeth they chatter, chatter still!

Young Harry was a lusty drover,
And who so stout of limb as he?
His cheeks were red as ruddy clover;
His voice was like the voice of three.
Old Goody Blake was old and poor;
Ill fed she was, and thinly clad;
And any man who passed her door
Might see how poor a hut she had.

All day she spun in her poor dwelling:
And then her three hours' work at night,
Alas! 'twas hardly worth the telling,
It would not pay for candle-light.
Remote from sheltered village-green,
On a hill's northern side she dwelt,
Where from sea-blasts the hawthorns lean
And hoary dews are slow to melt.

By the same fire to boil their pottage,
Two poor old Dames, as I have known,
Will often live in one small cottage ;
But she, poor Woman! housed alone.
'Twas well enough when summer came,
The long, warm, lightsome summer-day,
Then at her door the canty Dame
Would sit, as any linnet gay.

But when the ice our streams did fetter,
Oh then how her old bones would shake!
You would have said, if you had met her,
'Twas a hard time for Goody Blake.
Her evenings then were dull and dead :
Sad case it was, as you may think,
For very cold to go to bed;

And then for cold not sleep a wink.

O joy for her! whene'er in winter
The winds at night had made a rout;
And scattered many a lusty splinter
And many a rotten bough about.
Yet never had she, well or sick,
As every man who knew her says,
A pile beforehand, turf or stick,
Enough to warm her for three days.

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