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SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN.
1. 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. Full five-and-thirty years he lived
A running huntsman merry ; And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry.
2. No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee, When echo bandied round and round
The shrill halloo of Simon Lee.
For husbandry or tillage ;
The sleepers of the village.
3. He all the country could outrun,
Could leave both man and horse behind ; And often, ere the chase was done,
He reeled and was stone-blind.
At which his heart rejoices;
4. But oh, the heavy change bereft
Of health, strength, friends and kindred, see Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty :
Dwells in the Hall of Ivor;
He is the sole survivor,
His body dwindled and awry
His legs are thin and dry.
His wife, an aged woman,
Upon the village common.
6. 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 he can till no longer ?
7. Oft, working by her husband's side,
Ruth does what Simon cannot do ; For she, with scanty cause for pride,
Is stouter of the two.
And though you
your utmost skill From labour could not wean them, 'Tis little, very little, all
That they can do between them.
As he to you will tell,
Do his weak ankles swell.
How patiently you've waited, And now I fear that you expect
Some tale will be related.
9. O reader ! had
mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle reader ! you would find
A tale in everything.
And you must kindly take it :
Perhaps a tale you 'll make it.
10. One summer-day I chanced to see
This old man doing all he could
A stump of rotten wood.
So vain was his endeavour,
He might have worked for
11. You 're overtasked, good Simon Lee,
Give me your tool,' to him I said ;
Received my proffered aid.
The tangled root I severed,
And vainly had endeavoured.
12. The tears into his eyes were brought,
And thanks and praises seemed to run
They never would have done.
With coldness still returning;
Not one fowler in fifty thousand,' writes Christopher North, ‘has in all his days shot an eagle.' Beside the difficulty of it, there is a certain daring impiety in such an act, which perhaps disturbs the aim Above that glorious bird—between him and the sun—no living thing
From a region of unbroken solitude, he scans the movements of the minutest creatures here below with eyes of fire. Even when very young, they possess this marvellous power of vision. An slet was tethered