And that's the very Pony, too! Where is she, where is Betty Foy? She hardly can sustain her fears; The roaring waterfall she hears, And cannot find her Idiot Boy. Your Pony's worth his weight in gold: Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy! She's coming from among the trees, And now all full in view she sees Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy. And Betty sees the Pony too: Why stand you thus, good Betty Foy? It is no goblin, 'tis no ghost, Tis he whom you so long have lost, He whom you love, your Idiot Boy. She looks again — her arms are up — She screams — she cannot move for joy; She darts, as with a torrent's force, She almost has o'erturned the Horse, And fast she holds her Idiot Boy. And Johnny burrs, and laughs aloud; Whether in cunning or in joy I cannot tell; but while he laughs, Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs To hear again her Idiot Boy. And now she's at the Pony's tail, And now is at the Pony's head, — On that side now, and now on this; And, almost stifled with her bliss, A few sad tears does Betty shed. She kisses o'er and o'er again Him whom she loves, her Idiot Boy; She's happy here, is happy there, She is uneasy every where; Her limbs are all alive with joy. She pats the Pony, where or when She knows not, happy Betty Foy! The little Pony glad may be, But he is milder far than she, You hardly can perceive his joy. 'Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor; You've done your best, and that is all:' She took the reins, when this was said, And gently turned the Pony's head From the loud waterfall. By this the stars were almost gone, The moon was setting on the hill, So pale you scarcely looked at her: The little birds began to stir, Though yet their tongues were still. The Pony, Betty, and her Boy, Wind slowly through the woody dale; And who is she, betimes abroad, That hobbles up the steep rough road? Who is it, but old Susan Gale? Long time lay Susan lost in thought; And many dreadful fears beset her, Both for her Messenger and Nurse; And, as her mind grew worse and worse, Her body — it grew better. She turned, she tossed herself in bed, On all sides doubts and terrors met her; Point after point did she discuss; And, while her mind was fighting thus, Her body still grew better. 'Alas! what is become of them? These fears can never be endured; I'll to the wood.' — The word scarce said, Did Susan rise up from her bed, As if by magic cured.
