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No man like him the horn could sound,
And no man was so full of glee;

To say the least, four counties round

Had heard of Simon Lee;

His Master's dead, and no one now

Dwells in the hall of Ivor;

Men, Dogs, and Horses, all are dead;

He is the sole survivor.

And he is lean and he is sick,
His dwindled body's half awry;

His ancles, too, are swoln and thick;

His legs are thin and dry.

When he was young he little knew

Of husbandry or tillage;

And now is forced to work, though weak,

-The weakest in the village.

He all the country could outrun,

Could leave both man and horse behind;

And often, ere the race was done,

He reeled and was stone-blind.

And still there's something in the world

At which his heart rejoices ;

For when the chiming hounds are out,

He dearly loves their voices!

His hunting feats 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, near the waterfall,

Upon the village Common.

Old Ruth works out of doors with him,

And does what Simon cannot 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 can 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 can 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

Do his weak ancles swell.

My gentle Reader, I perceive

How patiently you've waited,

And I'm afraid that you expect
Some tale will be related.

O Reader! had you in your mind

Such stores as silent thought can bring,

O gentle Reader! you would find

A tale in every thing.

What more I have to say is short,

I hope you'll kindly take it:

It is no tale; but, should you think,
Perhaps a tale you'll make it.

One summer-day I chanced to see
This Old Man doing all he could
To unearth the root of an old tree,

A stump of rotten wood.

The mattock tottered in his hand ;

So vain was his endeavour

That at the root of the old tree

He might have worked for ever.

"You're overtasked, good Simon Lee,

Give me your tool," to him I said;

And at the word right gladly he
Received my proffered aid.

I struck, and with a single blow
The tangled root I severed,

At which the poor Old Man so long
And vainly had endeavoured..

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.

-I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds

With coldness still returning.

Alas! the gratitude of men

Has oftener left me mourning.

XIV.

ANDREW JONES.

I HATE that Andrew Jones : he'll breed
His children up to waste and pillage :
I wish the press-gang, or the drum
Would, with its rattling music, come-
And sweep him from the village.

I said not this, because he loves
Through the long day to swear and tipple;
But for the poor dear sake of one
To whom a foul deed he had done,
A friendless man, a travelling Cripple.

For this poor crawling helpless wretch
Some Horseman, who was passing by,
A penny on the ground had thrown;
But the poor Cripple was alone,
And could not stoop-no help was nigh.

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