1 1827.

An old Man dwells, a little man,-
'Tis said he once was tall.1 2

Full five-and-thirty years he lived 3
A running huntsman merry;
And still the centre of his cheek
Is red as a ripe cherry.*

No man like him the horn could sound,
And hill and valley rang with glee
When Echo bandied, round and round,
The 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.5

I've heard he once was tall.

2 In edd. 1798 to 1815 the following is inserted :Of years he has upon his back,

No doubt, a burden weighty;

He says he is three score and ten,
But others say he's eighty.

A long blue livery-coat has he,

That's fair behind and fair before;

Yet, meet him when you will, you see
At once that he is poor.

1798.

1

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!

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. 1

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

Rests upon ankles swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.

One prop he has, and only one :

His wife, an aged woman,

Lives with him, near the waterfall:
Upon the village Common.1

1 1827.

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.

His hunting feats have him bereft
Of his right eye, as you may see;
And Simon to the world is left,

In liveried poverty.

When he was young he little knew

Of husbandry or tillage;

And now is forced to work, though weak,

-The weakest in the village.

And he is lean, and he is sick,

His little body's half awry,

His ankles they are swollen and thick;

His legs are thin and dry.

1820.

When he was young he little knew

Of husbandry or tillage;

And now he's forced to work, though weak,

This scrap of land he from the heath
Enclosed when he was stronger;

But what to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer?1

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.2

And, though you with your utmost skill
From labour could not wean them,

'Tis little, very little-all 3

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.4

My gentle Reader, I perceive

How patiently you've waited,

And now I fear 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,
And you must kindly take it: 1
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,2
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.