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 it's 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 or 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.
And, turning homeward, now they cried "In heaven we 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 edge, 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 The 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.
Mary had a little lamb, It's fleece was white as snow; And everywhere that Mary went The lamb was sure to go.
He followed her to school one day-- That was against the rule; It made the children laugh and play, To see a lamb at school.
The teacher therefore turned him out; But still he lingered near, And on the grass he played about Till Mary did appear.
At once he ran to her, and laid His head upon her arm, As if to say, I'm not afraid-- You'll keep me from all harm.
"What makes the lamb love Mary so?" The little children cry; "Oh! Mary loves the lamb you know," The teacher did reply.
I met a little cottage girl; She was eight years old, she said; Her head was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad; Her eyes were fair, and very fair, Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering, looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea.