Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 1, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/141

89 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 avails the land to them,

Which they can till no longer?

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 anclesankles [sic] swell.

My gentle reader, I perceive

How patiently you've waited,

And I'm afraid that you expect

Some tale will be related.