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He all the country could outrun,
Old Ruth works out of doors with him,
Beside their moss
s-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 they can till no longer ?
Few months of life has he in store,
poor old ancles swell.
And I'm afraid that you expect Some tale will be related.
O reader ! had
think, Perhaps a tale you'll make it.
It is no
One summer-day I chanced to see
That at the root of the old tree
He might have worked for ever.
**You're overtasked, good Simon Leo,
The tears into his eyes were brought,
Written in early Spring.
I heard a thousand blended notes,
To her fair works did nature link
The human soul that through me ran;