Poor Susan moans, poor Susan groans; The clock is on the stroke of twelve, And Betty, half an hour ago, "A little idle sauntering Thing!" With other names, an endless string, And Betty's drooping at the heart, Susan! they'll both be here anon.' And Susan's growing worse and worse, And Betty's in a sad quandary; And then there's nobody to say If she must go or she must stay! The clock is on the stroke of one; But neither Doctor nor his Guide Appear along the moonlight road; There's neither horse nor man abroad, And Betty's still at Susan's side.. And Susan she begins to fear Of sad mischances not a few, That Johnny may perhaps be drowned, Or lost, perhaps, and never found; Which they must both for ever rue. She prefaced half a hint of this With, "God forbid it should be true!" Susan, I'd gladly stay with you. I must be gone, I must away, "What can I do?" says Betty, going, "Nay, Betty, go! good Betty, go! There's nothing that can ease my pain." Then off she hies, but with a prayer That God poor Susan's life would spare, Till she comes back again. So, through the moonlight lane she goes, And far into the moonlight dale; And how she ran, and how she walked, And all that to herself she talked, Would surely be a tedious tale. In high and low, above, below, In great and small, in round and square, She's past the bridge that's in the dale, To hunt the moon that's in the brook, And now she's high upon the down, Alone amid a prospect wide; There's neither Johnny nor his Horse There's neither Doctor nor his Guide. "Oh saints! what is become of him? Perhaps he's climbed into an oak, And joined the wandering gypsy-folk. Or him that wicked Pony's carried At poor old Susan then she railed, Poor Betty, in this sad distemper, And now she's got into the town, And to the Doctor's door she hies; 'Tis silence all on every side; The town so long, the town so wide, Is silent as the skies. |