I journeyed , on a winter's day, Across the lonely wold; No bird did sing upon the spray, And it was very cold. I had a coach with horses four, Three white (though one was black), And on they went the common o'er, Nor swiftness did they lack. A little girl ran by the side, And she was pinched and thin. ' Oh, please, sir, do give me a ride! I'm fetching mother's gin.' 'Enter my coach, sweet child,' said I; 'For you shall ride with me, And I will get you your supply Of mother's eau-de-vie.' The publican was stem and cold, And said:'Her mother's score Is writ, as you shall soon behold, Behind the bar-room door!' I blotted out the score with tears, And paid the money down, And took the maid of thirteen years Back to her mother's town; And though the past with surges wild Fond memories may sever, The vision of that happy child Will leave my spirit never!