SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN, WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED

                     In the sweet shire of Cardigan,
                     Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
                     An old man dwells, a little man,
                     I've heard he once was tall.
                     Of years he has upon his back,
                     No doubt, a burthen weighty;
                     He says he is three score and ten,
                     But others say he's eighty.

                     A long blue liver-coat has he,
                     That's fair behind, and fair before;
                     Yet, meet him where you will, you see
                     At once that he is poor.
                     Full five 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 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.

                     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.

                     And he is lean and he is sick,
                     His little body's half awry
                     His ancles they are swoln and thick
                     His legs are thin and dry.
                     When he was young he little knew
                     Of husbandry or tillage;
                     And now he's 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!

                     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
                     His poor old ankles swell.
                     My gentle reader, I perceive
                     How patiently you've waited,
                     And I'm afraid that you expect
                     Some tale will be related.

                     О 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
                     About the root of an old tree,
                     A stump of rotten wood.
                     The mattock totter'd 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 proffer'd aid.
                     I struck, and with a single blow
                     The tangled root I sever'd,
                     At which the poor old man so long
                     And vainly had endeavour'd.

                     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.

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