Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/79

19 The Boy then smacked his whip, and fast

The horses scampered through the rain;

And soon I heard upon the blast

The voice, and bade him halt again.

Said I, alighting on the ground,

"What can it be, this piteous moan?"

And there a little Girl I found,

Sitting behind the Chaise, alone.

"My Cloak!" the word was last and first,

And loud and bitterly she wept,

As if her very heart would burst;

And down from off her seat she leapt.

"What ails you, Child?" she sobb'd, "Look here!"

I saw it in the wheel entangled,

A weather-beaten Rag as e'er

From any garden scare-crow dangled.

'Twas twisted betwixt nave and spoke;

Her help she lent, and with good heed

Together we released the Cloak;

A wretched, wretched rag indeed!