Now Harry he had long suspected 65
  This trespass of old Goody Blake;
  And vowed that she should be detected—­
  That [5] he on her would vengeance take. 
  And oft from his warm fire he’d go,
  And to the fields his road would take; 70
  And there, at night, in frost and snow,
  He watched to seize old Goody Blake.

  And once, behind a rick of barley,
  Thus looking out did Harry stand: 
  The moon was full and shining clearly, 75
  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! 80

  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, 85
  The by-way [6] 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, 90
  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 prayed 95
  To God that is the judge of all.

  She prayed, her withered hand uprearing,
  While Harry held her by the arm—­
  “God! who art never out of hearing,
  O may he never more be warm!” 100
  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 105
  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:  110
  Another was on Thursday brought,
  And ere the Sabbath he had three.

  ’Twas all in vain, a useless matter,
  And blankets were about him pinned;
  Yet still his jaws and teeth they clatter, 115
  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. 120

  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; 125
  His teeth they chatter, chatter still. 
  Now think, ye farmers all, I pray,
  Of Goody Blake and Harry Gill! [A]