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Where in forgotten quiet he might dwell,
Wach allowance as his wants required;
For wishes he had none. To a lodge that stood
Deep in a forest, with leave given, at the age
Offer-and-twenty summers he withdrew;
And ther took with him his motherless Babe,
ALione domestic for their common needs,
An and woman. It consoled him here
Tatend upon the orphan, and perform

us service to the precious child, Water a short time, by some mistake

scretion of the Father, died.—

The Tale I follow to its last recess

safering or of peace, I know not which: Taste the blame who caused the woe, not mine!

Fra is time forth he never shared a smile cual creature. An Inhabitant

( cat mame town, in which the pair had left July a remembrance of their griefs, hance of business, coming within reach 4s retir ment, to the forest lodge Tared, but only found the matron there, Vid him that his pains were thrown away, Is that her Master never uttered word

ving thing-not even to her.-Behold! Vale they were speaking, Vaudracour approached;

ng some one near, as on the latch parin-gate his hand was laid, he shrunkta, Las a shadow, glided out of view. Natant at his savage aspect, from the place Vater retired.

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-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.

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