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The Owlets through the long blue night
Poor Betty now has lost all hope,
And now she sits her down and weeps;
A thought is come into her head r
Then up she springs, as if on wings;
O Reader! now that I might tell
Perhaps, and no unlikely thought!
Perhaps he's turned himself about,
And now, perhaps, he's hunting sheep,
Perhaps, with head and heels on fire,
I to the Muses have been bound
These fourteen years, by strong indentures:
O gentle Muses! let me tell
But half of what to him befel,
He surely met with strange adventures.
O gentle Muses! is this kind?
Who's yon, that, near the waterfall,
Unto his Horse, that's feeding free,
And that's the very Pony too.