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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.
In those proud days he little cared

For husbandry or tillage ;
To blither tasks did Simon rouse

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.
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.


4. But oh, the heavy change bereft

Of health, strength, friends and kindred, see Old Simon to the world is left

In liveried poverty :
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 body dwindled and awry
Rests upon ankles swollen and thick;

His legs are thin and dry.
He has no son, he has no child ;

His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him near the waterfall,

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.

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 ankles swell.
My gentle reader, I perceive

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.
What more I have to say is short,

And you must kindly take it :
It is no tale; but, should you think,

Perhaps a tale you 'll make it.

10. 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


11. 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.

12. 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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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

can soar.

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