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POEMS AND LYRICS.
109
MARTIN'S PUZZLE.
I.
There she goes up the street with her book in her hand,
And her Good morning, Martin! Ay, lass, how d'ye do?
Very well, thank you, Martin!—I can't understand!
I might just as well never have cobbled a shoe!
I can't understand it. She talks like a song;
Her voice takes your ear like the ring of a glass;
She seems to give gladness while limping along,
Yet sinner ne'er suffer'd like that little lass.
II.
First, a fool of a boy ran her down with a cart.
Then, her fool of a father—a blacksmith by trade—
