Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/240

180 There's scarce a soul that's 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?

The world will say 'tis very idle,

Bethink you of the time of night;

There's not a mother, no not one,

But when she hears what you have done,

O Betty, she 'll be in a fright.

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 band 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.