To the Editor of the Tenby Observer.

SIR, - The other day, struck by the grievous aspect of a wobegone adult sweltering upon a crag affording a notchy seat upon the South Sands, I neared the spot, and was pained to hear the accompanying dirge trolled forth in monotonous accents so uninterruptedly from beginning to end, over and over again, that I was able to catch the burden by heart. I offer it to you for insertion in your columns, since it may interest both your sea-side visitors and the powers that be, whose notions of the use and abuse of Tenby's beams and breezes may perhaps be made to harmonize through a little healthful ventilation.

Your obedient Servant, Quis.

Tenby, April, 1868.

POOR CRIPPLED MAN: A DIRGE.

Air "Poor Mary Ann"

Here, beneath the huge cliffs sitting,
Poor crippled man!
Under scorching sun-beams fritting,
Poor crippled man!
When you ask why he sits pining,
Or "on yonder rock reclining,"
While the Castle Hill stands shining,
Poor crippled man!

Sadly, then, he shakes his noddle,
Poor crippled man!
Points to legs which cannot toddle,
Poor crippled man!
Wofully he vows, he ponders
On that Castle Hill, and wonders,
Why he's stopped when there he wanders,
Poor crippled man!

Once or twice when sun-beams courted,
Poor crippled man!
On that hill his frame he sported,
Poor crippled man!
To and fro a Bath-chair carried
Helpless limbs; while there he tarried,
Cooling breezes sunbeams parried,
Poor crippled man!

Now, alas! there's no more roaming,
Poor crippled man!
Up that hill by morn or gloaming
Poor crippled man!
No Bath chairs may mount that acclivity,
Sternly preserved for robust activity,
The Prince looks down on the cripple's proclivity
Poor crippled man!