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