d, in Betchworth was a blazing hearth
With a hospitable door.
"Thou art tired and lame," quoth a kindly dame,
"Come taste of our humble store.

"Though scant be our fare, thou art welcome to share;
We rejoice to give thee our best;
Come sit by our fire, thou weary old sire,
Come in, little doggie, and rest."

And where Mole the slow doth by Cobham go,
He beheld a small village maiden;
Of loose flocks of wool her lap was quite full,
With a bundle her arms were laden.

"What seekest thou, child, 'mid the bushes wild,
Thy face and thine arms that thus tear?"
"The wool the sheep leave, to spin and to weave;
It makes us our clothes to wear."

Then she led him in, where her mother did spin,
And make barley bannocks to eat;
They gave him enough, though the food was rough--
The kindliness made it most sweet.

Many years had past, report ran at last,
The rich Alderman Smith was dead.
Then each knight and dame, and each merchant came,
To hear his last testament read.

I, Harry Smith, found of mind clear and sound,
Thus make and devise my last will:
While England shall stand, I bequeath my land,
My last legacies to fulfil.

"To the muddy spot, where they cleaned them not,
When amongst their fields I did roam;
To every one there with the unkempt hair
I bequeath a small-toothed comb.

"Next, to Mitcham proud, and the gaping crowd,
Who for nobody's sorrows grieve;
With a lash double-thong, plaited firm and strong,
A horsewhip full stout do I leave.

"To Walton-on-Thames, where, 'mid willow stems,
The lads and the lasses idle;
To restrain their tongues, and breath of their lungs,
I bequeath a bit and a bridle.

"To Betchworth so fair, and the households there
Who so well did the stranger cheer,
I leave as my doles to the pious souls,
Full seventy pounds by the year.

"To Cobham the thrifty I leave a good fifty,
To be laid out in cloth dyed dark;
On Sabbath-day to be given away,
And known by Smith's badge and mark.

"To Leatherhead too my gratitude's due,
For a welcome most freely given;
Let my bounty remain, for each village to gain,
Whence the poor man was never driven."

So in each sweet dale, and bright sunny vale,
In the garden of England blest;
Those have found a friend, whose gifts do not end,
Who gave to that stranger a rest!

Henry Smith's history is literally true. He was a silversmith of
immense wealth in