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In the sweet
shire of Cardigan,
Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall,
An old man dwells, a little man, -
'Tis said 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.
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.
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.
And he is lean and he is
sick;
His body, dwindled and awry,
Rests upon
ankles swoll'n 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.
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 to them avails the land
Which he can till no longer?
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 with 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.
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:
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
Hath oftener left me mourning.
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