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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,

       ‘Twas Johnny, Johnny, every where.

      She’s past the bridge that’s in the dale,

       And now the thought torments her sore,

       Johnny perhaps his horse forsook,

       To hunt the moon that’s in the brook,

       And never will be heard of more.

      And now she’s high upon the down,

       Alone amid a prospect wide;

       There’s neither Johnny nor his horse,

       Among the fern or in the gorse;

       There’s neither doctor nor his guide.

      “Oh 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 gypsey-folk.

      “Or him that wicked pony’s carried

       “To the dark cave, the goblins’ hall,

       “Or in the castle he’s pursuing,

       “Among the ghosts, his own undoing;

       “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 would hardly spare,

       Unworthy things she talked and wild,

       Even he, of cattle the most mild,

       The pony had his share.

      And now she’s got into 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 shews,

       His glimmering eyes that peep and doze;

       And one hand rubs his old nightcap.

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

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

       “Oh 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?”

       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 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;

       — 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 shock’d 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,

       “Oh cruel! I’m almost threescore;

       “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 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,

      

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