21 8 poetry. Aug. x.^ 



Sir, To the Editor of the Bee. 



If the following song tend not to depreciate the dignity ef your MI«- 

 tellany, by inserting it you wOuM inu<.b oblige Vik> 



TH£ LASS OF MA&TINDALE. 



At Martindale, a village gay, 



A damsel deigns to dwell \ 

 Her looks are like a summer's day, 



Her charms no tongue can tell : 

 Whene'er I meet her cm my way, 



I tell my am'rous tale j 

 ■ Then heave a «igh, or softly say 

 Sweet mard 9t' Martindale ! 

 Sweet maid of Martindale! 

 Sweet maid of Martindale ! 

 Then heave a tigh, or softly say 

 Sweet maid of Martindale ! 



This nymph hath numbers in her traia. 



From Hodge up to the 'squire; 

 A conquest makes of ev'ry swain. 



All gaae and all admire : 

 Then whrre's the hope, alas! for me. 



That I fhould e'er prevail ; 

 Yet while I breathe I'll think of thee. 



Sweet maid of Martindale ! 



Sweet maid of Martindale, Vc, 



Should fate propitious be my lot. 



To call this charmer mine, 

 I'd dwell content in lowly cor, 



And pfinapous thoughts resign; 

 But if (lie scorns each heart-felt sigh, 



And leaves me to bewail; 

 For thee, my Fair! for thee I'll die. 

 Sweet maid of Martindale! 

 Sweet maid of Martindale, 

 Sweet maid of Martindale ! 

 For thee, my Fair, for thee I'll die. 

 Sweet maid of Martindale ! 



AN EPIGRAM. 



Tor the Bee 

 Being a/k'd why in Scotland they've paper for gold, 



A satirical jade who let nothing escape her. 

 Made an answer at once both convincing and bold, 



■Where there's plenty of rags, there is always much paper. 



