The storm came on before its time
She wandered up and down
And many a-hill did Lucy climb
But never reached the town
The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them as a guide
At daybreak, on a hill, they stood
That overlooked the scene
And thence, they saw the bridge of wood
That spanned a deep ravine
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 edge
They tracked the footmarks small
And through the broken hawthorn hedge
And by the long stonewall
And then, an open field, they crossed
The marks were still the same
They tracked them on, not 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
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
O'er rough and smooth, she trips along
And never looks behind
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind
