The owlet, in the moonlight air, 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? Scarcely a soul is 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? 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 on the well-girt 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 and through 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 befall, 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!
