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 Arid once, behind a rick of barley, Thus looking out did Harry stand; The moon was full and shining clearly, And crisp with frost the stubble-land. —He hears a noise—he's all awake— Again?—on tip-toe down the hill He softly creeps—'Tis Goody Blake, She's at the hedge of Harry Gill.

Right glad was he when he beheld her; Stick after stick did Goody pull, He stood behind a bush of elder, Till she had filled her apron full. When with her load she turned about, The bye-road back again to take, He started forward with a shout, And sprang upon poor Goody Blake.