Then did the little Maid reply, "You run about, my little Maid, "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hom; And there upon the ground I sit, And often after sunset, sir, The first that died was sister Jane; Till God released her of her pain: So in the churchyard she was laid; And when the ground was white with snow, My brother John was forced to go, "How many are you, then," said I, Quick was the little Maid's reply, "O Master! we are seven." "But they are dead; those two are dead? 'Twas throwing words away; for still And said, "Nay, we are seven !" SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN: WITH AN INCIDENT IN WHICH HE WAS CONCERNED. N the sweet shire of Cardigan, IN Not far from pleasant Ivor-hall, Full five-and-thirty years he lived No man like him the horn could sound, In those proud days he little cared To blither tasks did Simon rouse He all the country could outrun, 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; Rests upon ankles swollen 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, A scrap of land they have, but they This scrap of land he from the heath Oft, working by her Husband's side, And, though you with your utmost skill '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 My gentle Reader, I perceive O Reader! had you in your mind A tale in every thing. What more I have to say is short, One summer-day I chanced to sce The mattock tottered in his hand; That at the root of the old tree "You're overtasked, good Simon Lee, I struck, and with a single blow The tears into his eyes were brought, -I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds |