Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, This scrap of land he from the heath But what avails the land to them, Few months of life has he in store, As he to you will tell, For still, the more he works, the more His poor old ancles swell. My gentle reader, I perceive How patiently you've waited, And I'm afraid that you expect Some tale will be related. O reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, What more I have to say is short, It is no tale; but should you think, One summer-day I chanced to see The mattock totter'd 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 I struck, and with a single blow At which the poor old man so long The tears into his eyes were brought, —I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning. Alas! the gratitude of men Has oftner left me mourning. ANECDOTE FOR FATHERS, SHEWING HOW THE ART OF LYING MAY BE TAUGHT. I have a boy of five years old, His face is fair and fresh to see; His limbs are cast in beauty's mould, And dearly he loves me. One morn we stroll'd on our dry walk, Our quiet house all full in view, And held such intermitted talk As we are wont to do. My thoughts on former pleasures ran; A day it was when I could bear To think, and think, and think again; My boy was by my side, so slim And oftentimes I talked to him, The young lambs ran a pretty race; The morning sun shone bright and warm; "Kilve," said I, "was a pleasant place, "And so is Liswyn farm. |