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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 J
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.
Few months of life has he In store,
0 reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring,
0 gentle reader! you would find A tale in every thing.
What more I have to say is short,
1 hope you'll kindly take it;
It is no tale; but should you think,
One summer-day I chanced to see
"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 endeavoured.
The tears into his eyes were brought,
Written in early Spring.
I heard a thousand blended notes,
To her fair works did nature link