Poems :: Simon Lee, the Old Huntsman

Simon Lee, the Old Huntsman

with an incident in which he was concerned.

Composed 1798.—Published 1798.

This old man had been huntsman to the Squires of Alfoxden, which, at the time we occupied it, belonged to a minor. The old man's cottage stood upon the Common, a little way from the entrance to Alfoxden Park. But it had disappeared. Many other changes had taken place in the adjoining village, which I could not but notice with a regret more natural than well-considered. Improvements but rarely appear such to those who, after long intervals of time, revisit places they have had much pleasure in. It is unnecessary to add, the fact was as mentioned in the poem; and I have, after an interval of forty-five years, the image of the old man as fresh before my eyes as if I had seen him yesterday. The expression when the hounds were out, 'I dearly love their voice,' was word for word from his own lips.—I. F.

This poem was classed among those of "Sentiment and Reflection."—Ed.

text	variant	footnote	line number
In the sweet shire of Cardigan, 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 swoln 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 would 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 see 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.	¹ ² / ³ ⁴ ⁵ ⁶ ⁷ ⁸ ⁹ ¹⁰ ¹¹ ¹² ¹³ ¹⁴ ¹⁵ ¹⁶ ¹⁷ ¹⁸ ¹⁹	^A ^B ^C	5 10 15 20 25 30 35 40 45 50 55 60 65 70 75 80 85 90 95

Variant 1:

1827
I've heard ...	1798

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Variant 2: In editions 1798 to 1815 the following is inserted:

Of years he has upon his back,
No doubt, a burthen weighty;
He says he is three score and ten,
But others say he's eighty.
A long blue livery-coat has he,
That's fair behind, and fair before;
Yet, meet him where you will, you see
At once that he is poor.

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Variant 3:

1827
... five and twenty ...	1798

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Variant 4:

1845
And, though he has but one eye left, His cheek is like a cherry. And still the centre of his cheek Is blooming as a cherry.	1798 1820

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Variant 5:

1827

No man like him the horn could sound,
And no man was so full of glee;
To say the least, four counties round
Had heard of Simon Lee;
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.
Worn out by hunting feats—bereft
By time of friends and kindred, see!
Old Simon to the world is left
In liveried poverty.
His Master's dead, ...

1798
1827

The fourth stanza of the final edition being second in 1827, and the second stanza being third in 1827.
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Variant 6:

1827
... race ...	1798

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Variant 7:

Of strength, of friends, and kindred, see.

In MS. letter to Allan Cunningham, Nov. 1828.
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Variant 8:

1832

His hunting feats have him bereft
Of his right eye, as you may see:
And then, what limbs those feats have left
To poor old Simon Lee!
He has no son, he has no child,
His wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village common.
His hunting feats have him bereft
Of his right eye, as you may see,
And Simon to the world is left,
In liveried poverty.
When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;
And now is forced to work, though weak,
—The weakest in the village.

1798
1820

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Variant 9:

1798
But ...	1820

The text of 1832 reverts to that of 1798.
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Variant 10:

1827

His little body's half awry,
His ancles they are swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
When he was young he little knew
Of husbandry or tillage;
And now he's forced to work, though weak,
—The weakest in the village.
His dwindled body's half awry,
His ancles, too, are swoln and thick;
And now is forced to work,
His dwindled body half awry,
Rests upon ancles swoln and thick;
His legs are thin and dry.
He has no son, he has no child,
His Wife, an aged woman,
Lives with him, near the waterfall,
Upon the village Common.

1798
1800
1815
1815
1820

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Variant 11:

1845
But what avails the land to them, Which they can till no longer? "But what," saith he, "avails the land, Which I can till no longer?" But what avails it now, the land Which he can till no longer? 'Tis his, but what avails the land Which he can till no longer? The time, alas! is come when he Can till the land no longer. The time is also come when he Can till the land no longer.	1798 1827 1832 1837 1840 C.

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Variant 12:

1827
Old Ruth works out of doors with him, And does what Simon cannot do; For she, not over stout of limb,	1798

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Variant 13:

1840
Alas! 'tis very little, all Which they can ... That they can ...	1798 1837

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Variant 14:

1815
His poor old ancles swell.	1798

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Variant 15:

1820
And I'm afraid ...	1798

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Variant 16:

1820
I hope you'll ...	1798

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Variant 17:

1798
... think,	In the editions 1832 to 1843.

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Variant 18:

1815
About the root ...	1798

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Variant 19:

1820
Has oftner ... Has oftener ...	1798 1805

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Footnote A: Note that the phrase: 'But oh the heavy change,' occurs in Milton's Lycidas. (Professor Dowden.) See Lycidas, l. 37.—Ed.
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Footnote B: Compare Shakspeare's Sonnet, No. xxx.:

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past;

and in Spenser's An epitaph upon the Right Honourable Sir Phillip Sidney, Knight; Lord governor of Flushing.

Farewell, self-pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth.

Ed.
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Footnote C: See Appendix VI. to this volume.—Ed.
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