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Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They track'd the footmarks small ';
And then an open field they cross'd,
The marks were still the same;
They track'd them on, nor ever lost,
And to the Bridge they came.
They follow'd 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.
The IDLE SHEPHERD-BOYS,
The valley rings with mirth and joy,
A never, never ending song
To welcome in the May.
The Magpie chatters with delight;
*Gill in the dialect of Cumberland and Westmoreland is a short and for the most part a steep narrow valley, with a stream running through it. Force is the word universally employed in these dialects for Waterfall.
The mountain Raven's youngling Brood
Have left the Mother and the Nest,
And they go rambling east and west
In search of their own food,
Or thro' the glittering Vapors dart
Beneath a rock, upon the grass,
And thus as happy as the Day,
Those Shepherds wear the time away.
Along the river's stony marge
The sand-lark chaunts a joyous song;
The thrush is busy in the Wood,
A thousand lambs are on the rocks,
Those Boys with their green Coronal,
That plaintive cry! which up the hill
Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Gill.
Said Walter, leaping from the ground,
I'll run with you a race."-No more-
They leapt, they ran, and when they came