Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,
And, when I crossed the Wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary Child.

​

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide Moor,
The sweetest Thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

​

You yet may spy the Fawn at play,
The Hare upon the Green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.
 
“To-night will be a stormy night,
You to the Town must go,
And take the lantern, Child, to light
Your Mother through the snow.”

​

“That, Father! Will I gladly do;
'Tis scarcely afternoon--
The Minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon.”

​

At this the Father raised his hook
And snapp'd a faggot-band;
He plied his work – and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

​

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 its time,
She wander'd up and down,
And many a hill did Lucy climb
But never reach'd the Town.

​

The wretched Parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor 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.

​

They wept, and turning homeward cried
"In Heaven we all shall meet!"
When in the snow the Mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

​

Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,
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.

​

Over rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.