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eight o’clock, — a clear March night,

       The moon is up — the sky is blue,

       The owlet in the moonlight air,

       He shouts from nobody knows where;

       He lengthens out his lonely shout,

       Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!

      — Why bustle thus about your door,

       What means this bustle, Betty Foy?

       Why are you in this mighty fret?

       And why on horseback have you set

       Him whom you love, your idiot boy?

      Beneath the moon that shines so bright,

       Till she is tired, let Betty Foy

       With girt and stirrup fiddle-faddle;

       But wherefore set upon a saddle

       Him whom she loves, her idiot boy?

      There’s scarce a soul that’s out of bed;

       Good Betty put him down again;

       His lips with joy they burr at you,

       But, Betty! what has he to do

       With stirrup, saddle, or with rein?

      The world will say ‘tis very idle,

       Bethink you of the time of night;

       There’s not a mother, no not one,

       But when she hears what you have done,

       Oh! Betty she’ll be in a fright.

      But Betty’s bent on her intent,

       For her good neighbour, Susan Gale,

       Old Susan, she who dwells alone,

       Is sick, and makes a piteous moan,

       As if her very life would fail.

      There’s not a house within a mile,

       No hand to help them in distress;

       Old Susan lies a bed in pain,

       And sorely puzzled are the twain,

       For what she ails they cannot guess.

      And Betty’s husband’s at the wood,

       Where by the week he doth abide,

       A woodman in the distant vale;

       There’s none to help poor Susan Gale,

       What must be done? what will betide?

      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 up upon the saddle set,

       The like was never heard of yet,

       Him whom she loves, her idiot boy.

      And he must post without delay

       Across the bridge that’s in 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

       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 befal,

       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,

       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’s motionless and dead:

       The moon that shines above his head

       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 Betty’s standing at the door,

       And Betty’s face with joy o’erflows,

       Proud of herself, and proud of him,

       She sees him in his travelling trim;

       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,

       And Betty listens, glad to hear it.

      Away she hies to Susan Gale:

       And Johnny’s in a merry tune,

       The owlets hoot, the owlets purr,

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

       And 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,

       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

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