Chorus.—­In the days, &c.

Then April’s flowery return
Was “Peace-with-Honour’s” goal. 
And the bright brimstone-bunch would burn
In every button-hole. 
Our Dames were gaily on the wing,
With blossoms in full blow,
In the days when we went Primrosing,
A long time ago.

Chorus.—­In the days, &c.

But now Progressive storms prevail
Election blizzards chill;
The Primroses seem sparse and pale
In valley and on hill. 
Yon cloud looks black as raven’s wing! 
Things did not menace so. 
In the days when we went Primrosing
A long time ago!

Chorus.—­In the days, &c.

Both. Oh, brayvo, BOBBY!

Master Robert. Thanks.  Yet my song’s burden
    Is dismal as the croakings of Dame Durden. 
    Our holiday is spoilt by driving showers. 
    I fear we shall have no great show of flowers;
    But—­anyhow my boys we’re under cover;
    And let us hope that storm-cloud will pass over
    Without first giving us a dreadful drenching,
    And all our April-hopes entirely quenching.

All (singing together). 
      Rain!  Rain! 
        Go away! 
      Come again
        Another day!

    [Left crouching and singing.

* * * * *

FROM THE THEATRES, &C.  COMMISSION.—­“I am afraid,” said Mr. P.S.  RUTLAND, speaking of the Music Halls, and in answer to a question of Mr. BOLTON’s, “we cannot do a wreck. (Laughter.)” Mr. WOODALL:  “Without being wrecked in the attempt. (Renewed laughter.)” Oh, witty WOODALL!  Why, encouraged by this applause, he may yet be led on to make a pun on his own name, and say, “Would all were like him!” or some such merry jest.  The proceedings in this Committee were becoming a trifle dull, but it is to be hoped that they may yet hear something still more sparkling from the wise and witty WOODALL.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  APRIL SHOWERS; OR, A SPOILT EASTER HOLIDAY.

TRIO.  “RAIN!  RAIN!  GO AWAY!  COME AGAIN ANOTHER DAY!”]

* * * * *

TO MY COOK.

[Illustration]

  Oh, hard of favour, fat of form,
    How fairer art thou than thy looks,
  Whose heart with kitchen fires is warm,
    Thou plainest of the plainer Cooks!

  Low down upon thy forehead grows
    Thick hair of no conducive dye;
  Short and aspiring is thy nose,
    Watched ever by a furtive eye.

  In shy defiance rarely seen
    Where kitchen stairways darkly tend,
  A foe to judge thee by thy mien,
    Proclaimed in every act a friend!

  I know thee little; not thy views
    On public or on private life,
  Whether a single lot thou’dst choose,
    Or fain would’st be a Guardsman’s wife;