[Variant 3: 

1832.

    ... a ewe ... 1798.]

[Variant 4: 

1836.

    As sweet ... 1798.]

[Variant 5: 

1836.

    Upon the mountain did they feed; 1798.]

[Variant 6: 

1800.

    Ten ... 1798.]

[Variant 7: 

1836.

    ... upon the mountain ... 1798.]

[Variant 8: 

1827.

    They dwindled one by one away;
    For me it was a woeful day. 1798.]

[Variant 9: 

1836.

    Oft-times I thought to run away;
    For me it was a woeful day. 1798.

    Bent oftentimes to flee from home,
    And hide my head where wild beasts roam. 1827.]

* * * * *

THE IDIOT BOY

Composed 1798.—­Published 1798.

[Alfoxden, 1798.  The last stanza, ’The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo, and the sun did shine so cold,’ was the foundation of the whole.  The words were reported to me by my dear friend Thomas Poole; but I have since heard the same repeated of other idiots.  Let me add, that this long poem was composed in the groves of Alfoxden, almost extempore; not a word, I believe, being corrected, though one stanza was omitted.  I mention this in gratitude to those happy moments, for, in truth, I never wrote anything with so much glee.—­I.  F.]

One of the “Poems founded on the Affections.”—­Ed.

* * * * *

THE POEM

  ’Tis eight o’clock,—­a clear March night,
  The moon is up,—­the sky is blue,
  The owlet, in the moonlight air,
  Shouts from [1] nobody knows where;
  He lengthens out his lonely shout, 5
  Halloo! halloo! a long halloo!

 —­Why bustle thus about your door,
  What means this bustle, Betty Foy? 
  Why are you in this mighty fret? 
  And why on horseback have you set 10
  Him whom you love, your Idiot Boy?
  [2]

Scarcely a soul is out of bed:  [3] Good Betty, put him down again; His lips with joy they burr at you; But, Betty! what has he to do 15 With stirrup, saddle, or with rein? [4]

  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, 20
  As if her very life would fail.

  There’s not a house within a mile,
  No hand to help them in distress;
  Old Susan lies a-bed in pain,
  And sorely puzzled are the twain, 25
  For what she ails they cannot guess.

  And Betty’s husband’s at the wood,
  Where by the week he doth abide,
  A woodman in the distant vale;
  There’s none to help poor Susan Gale; 30
  What must be done? what will betide?