193
She stops, she stands, she looks about,
Which way to turn she cannot tell.
Poor Betty! it would ease her pain
If she had heart to knock again;
—The clock strikes three—a dismal knell!
Then up along the town she hies,
No wonder if her senses fail,
This piteous news so much it shocked her,
She quite forgot to send the Doctor,
To comfort poor old Susan Gale.
And now she's high upon the down,
And she can see a mile of road;
"Oh cruel! I'm almost threescore;
Such night as this was ne'er before,
There's not a single soul abroad."
She listens, but she cannot hear
The foot of horse, the voice of man;
The streams with softest sounds are flowing,
The grass you almost hear it growing,
You hear it now if e'er you can.
