Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we :
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the churchyard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"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 sing a song to them.

And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain:
And then she went away.

So in the churchyard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"

Quick was the little Maid's reply,

"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead?
Their spirits are in heaven!"

'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,

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,
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 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,
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 will 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 sce
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.