Let my obedience then excuse My disobedience now, Nor some reproof yourself refuse From your aggrieved Bow-wow;
If killing birds be such a crime, (Which I can hardly see), What think you, sir, of killing Time With verse address'd to me?
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, --The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.
'To-night will be a stormy night-- You to the town must go; And take a lantern, Child, to light Your mother through the snow.'
'That, Father! will I gladly do: 'Tis scarcely afternoon-- The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon!'
At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a faggot-band; He plied his work;--and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb, But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from their door.
They wept--and, turning homeward, cried, 'In heaven we all shall meet!' --When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone wall;
And then an open field they crossed: The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none!
--Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.
Waken, lords and ladies gay! On the mountain dawns the day; All the jolly chase is here, With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear! Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling; Merrily, merrily, mingle they, 'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'