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he took her,

       And by the arm he held her fast,

       And fiercely by the arm he shook her,

       And cried, “I’ve caught you then at last!”

       Then Goody, who had nothing said,

       Her bundle from her lap let fall;

       And kneeling on the sticks, she pray’d

       To God that is the judge of all.

      She pray’d, her wither’d hand uprearing,

       While Harry held her by the arm —

       ”God! who art never out of hearing,

       O may he never more be warm!”

       The cold, cold moon above her head,

       Thus on her knees did Goody pray,

       Young Harry heard what she had said;

       And icy-cold he turned away.

      He went complaining all the morrow

       That he was cold and very chill:

       His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow,

       Alas! that day for Harry Gill!

       That day he wore a riding-coat,

       But not a whit the warmer he:

       Another was on Thursday brought,

       And ere the Sabbath he had three.

      ’Twas all in vain, a useless matter,

       And blankets were about him pinn’d;

       Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter,

       Like a loose casement in the wind.

       And Harry’s flesh it fell away;

       And all who see him say ‘tis plain,

       That, live as long as live he may,

       He never will be warm again.

      No word to any man he utters,

       A-bed or up, to young or old;

       But ever to himself he mutters,

       ”Poor Harry Gill is very cold.”

       A-bed or up, by night or day;

       His teeth they chatter, chatter still.

       Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,

       Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill.

THE THORN.

       Table of Contents

      I.

      There is a thorn; it looks so old,

       In truth you’d find it hard to say,

       How it could ever have been young,

       It looks so old and grey.

       Not higher than a two years’ child

       It stands erect this aged thorn;

       No leaves it has, no thorny points;

       It is a mass of knotted joints,

       A wretched thing forlorn.

       It stands erect, and like a stone

       With lichens it is overgrown.

      II.

      Like rock or stone, it is o’ergrown

       With lichens to the very top,

       And hung with heavy tufts of moss,

       A melancholy crop:

       Up from the earth these mosses creep,

       And this poor thorn! they clasp it round

       So close, you’d say that they were bent

       With plain and manifest intent,

       To drag it to the ground;

       And all had join’d in one endeavour

       To bury this poor thorn for ever.

      III.

      High on a mountain’s highest ridge,

       Where oft the stormy winter gale

       Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds

       It sweeps from vale to vale;

       Not five yards from the mountain-path,

       This thorn you on your left espy;

       And to the left, three yards beyond,

       You see a little muddy pond

       Of water, never dry;

       I’ve measured it from side to side:

       ’Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.

      IV.

      And close beside this aged thorn,

       There is a fresh and lovely sight,

       A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,

       Just half a foot in height.

       All lovely colours there you see,

       All colours that were ever seen,

       And mossy network too is there,

       As if by hand of lady fair

       The work had woven been,

       And cups, the darlings of the eye,

       So deep is their vermillion dye.

      V.

      Ah me! what lovely tints are there!

       Of olive green and scarlet bright,

       In spikes, in branches, and in stars,

       Green, red, and pearly white.

       This heap of earth o’ergrown with moss,

       Which close beside the thorn you see,

       So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,

       Is like an infant’s grave in size

       As like as like can be:

       But never, never any where,

       An infant’s grave was half so fair.

      VI.

      Now would you see this aged thorn,

       This pond and beauteous hill of moss,

       You must take care and chuse your time

       The mountain when to cross.

       For oft there sits, between the heap

       That’s like an infant’s grave in size

       And that same pond of which I spoke,

       A woman in a scarlet cloak,

       And to herself she cries,

       ”Oh misery! oh misery!

       Oh woe is me! oh misery!”

      VII.

      At all times of the day and night

       This wretched woman thither goes,

       And she is known to every star,

       And every wind that blows;

       And there beside the thorn she sits

       When the blue daylight’s in the skies,

       And when the whirlwind’s on the hill,

       Or frosty air is keen and still,

       And to herself she cries,

       ”Oh misery! oh misery!

       Oh woe is me! oh misery;”

      VIII.

      ”Now wherefore thus, by day and night,

       In rain, in tempest, and in snow

      

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