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 downwards from the steep hill's edge45 They tracked the footprints 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;50 They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank Those footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank;55 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.60
O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.