And 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. And fiercely by the arm he took her, And by the arm he held her fast, And fiercely by the arm he shook her, And cried, "I've caught you then at last!" Then Goody, who had nothing said, Her bundle from her lap let fall; And kneeling on the sticks, she pray'd To God that is the judge of all. She pray'd, her wither'd hand uprearing, While Harry held her by the arm-- "God! who art never out of hearing, O may he never more be warm!" The cold, cold moon above her head, Thus on her knees did Goody pray, Young Harry heard what she had said; And icy-cold he turned away. He went complaining all the morrow That he was cold and very chill: His face was gloom, his heart was sorrow, Alas! that day for Harry Gill! That day he wore a riding-coat, But not a whit the warmer he: Another was on Thursday brought, And ere the Sabbath he had three. 'Twas all in vain, a useless matter, And blankets were about him pinn'd; Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, Like a loose casement in the wind. And Harry's flesh it fell away; And all who see him say 'tis plain, That, live as long as live he may, He never will be warm again. No word to any man he utters, A-bed or up, to young or old; But ever to himself he mutters, "Poor Harry Gill is very cold." A-bed or up, by night or day; His teeth they chatter, chatter still. Now think, ye farmers all, I pray, Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill. _THE THORN_. I. There is a thorn; it looks so old, In truth you'd find it hard to say, How it could ever have been young, It looks so old and grey. Not higher than a two years' child It stands erect this aged thorn; No leaves it has, no thorny points; It is a mass of knotted joints, A wretched thing forlorn. It stands erect, and like a stone With lichens it is overgrown. II. Like rock or stone, it is o'ergrown With lichens to the very top, And hung with heavy tufts of moss, A melancholy crop: Up from the earth these mosses creep, And this poor thorn! they clasp it round So close, you'd say that they were bent With plain and manifest intent, To drag it to the ground; And all had join'd in one endeavour To bury this poor thorn for ever. III.