At dead low ebb of night, when none
But Great Charles' Wain was driven on,
When mortals strict cessation keep,
To re-recruit themselves with sleep.

'Twas then a boy knocked at my gate.
Who's there, said I, that calls so late?
O let me in! he soon replied,
I am a child, and then he cried,
I wander without guide or light,
Lost in this wet, blind, moonless night.

In pity then I rose, and straight
Unbarred my door, and sprang a light:
Behold, it was a lovely boy,
A sweeter sight ne'er blessed mine eye:
I view'd him round, and saw strange things,
A bow, a quiver, and two wings:

I led him to the fire, and then
I dried and chaf'd his hands with mine:
I gently press'd his tresses, curls,
Which new-fall'n rain had hung with pearls:

At last when warm'd, the yonker said,
Alas, my bow! I am afraid
The string is wet: pray (Sir) let's try, 
Let's try my bow. Do, do said I.

He bent it, shot, so quick and smart,
As through my liver reach'd my heart.
Then in a trice he took his flight,
And laughing said, My bow is right,
It is. O ‘tis! for as he spoke,
'Twas not his bow, but my heart is broke.