SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN...

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    <strong>SIMOHE OLD HUNTSMAN, WITH AN I IN WHICH HE WAS ED.</strong>

    In the sweet shire of Cardigan,

    Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,

    An old man dwells, a little man,

    Ive heard he once was tall.

    Of years he has upon his back,

    No doubt, a burthey;

    He says he is three score and ten,

    But others say hes eighty.

    A long blue livery-coat has he,

    Thats fair behind, and fair before;

    Yet, meet him where you will, you see

    At ohat he is poor.

    Full ?ve and twenty years he lived

    A running huntsman merry;

    And, though he has but one eye left,

    His cheek is like a cherry.

    No man like him the horn could sound.

    And no man was so full of glee;

    To say the least, four ties round

    Had heard of Simon Lee;

    His masters dead, and no one now

    Dwells in the hall of Ivor;

    Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead;

    He is the sole survivor.

    His huntis have him bereft

    Of his right eye, as you may see:

    And then, what limbs those feats have left

    To poor old Simon Lee!

    He .has no son, he has no child,

    His wife, an aged woman,

    Lives with him, he waterfall,

    Upon the village on.

    And he is lean and he is sick,

    His little bodys half awry

    His ahey are swoln and thick

    His legs are thin and dry.

    When he was youtle knew

    Of husbandry or tillage;

    And now hes forced to work, though weak,

    --The weakest in the village.

    He all the try could outrun,

    Could leave both man and horse behind;

    And often, ere <big></big>the race was done,

    He reeled and was stone-blind.

    And still theres something in the world

    At which his heart rejoices;

    For when the chiming hounds are out,

    He dearly loves their voices!

    Old Ruth works out of doors with him,

    And does what Simon ot do;

    For she, not over stout of limb,

    Is stouter of the two.

    And though you with your utmost skill

    From labour could not wean them,

    Alas! tis very little, all

    Which they  do between them.

    Beside their moss-grown hut of clay,

    Not twenty paces from the door,

    A scrap of land they have, but they

    Are poorest of the poor.

    This scrap of land he from the heath

    Enclosed when he was stronger;

    But what avails the land to them,

    Which they  till no longer?

    Few months of life has he in store,

    As he to you will tell,

    For still, the more he works, the more

    His poor old ancles swell.

    My gentle reader, I perceive

    How patiently youve waited,

    And Im afraid that you expect

    Some tale will be related.

    >藏书网</a>O reader! had you in your mind

    Such stores as silent thought  bring,

    O gentle reader! you would ?nd

    A tale ihing.

    What more I have to say is short,

    I hope youll kindly take it;

    It is no tale; but should you think,

    Perhaps a tale youll make it.

    One summer-day I ced to see

    This old man doing all he could

    About the root of an old tree,

    A stump of rotten wood.

    The mattock totterd in his hand;

    So vain was his endeavour

    That at the root of the old tree

    He might ha99liｂ?ve worked for ever.

    &quot;Youre overtasked, good Simon Lee,

    Give me your tool&quot; to him I said;

    And at the wht gladly he

    Received my profferd aid.

    I struck, and with a single blow

    The tangled root I severd,

    At which the poor old man so long

    And vainly had endeavourd.

    The tears into his eyes were brought,

    And thanks and praises seemed to run

    So fast out of his heart, I thought

    They never would have done.

    --Ive heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds

    With ess still returning.

    Alas! the gratitude of men

    Has oftner left me m.

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