Punch, or The London Charivari | Page 9

The other Footmen looked up to him as their moddel, and ewen the sollem Butler treated him with respec, and sumtimes with sumthink else as he liked even better. The leading Gentlemen from other Doocal establishments charfed him upon his success with the Fare, ewen among the werry hiest of the Nobillerty, and CHARLES bore it all with a good-natured larf that showed off his ivory teeth to perfecshun. Of course it was all in fun, as they said, and probberly thort, till on this fatal ewening, the noose spread like thunder, through the estonished world of Fashun, that CHARLES had heloped with the welthy, the middle-aged, but still bewtifool, Marchioness of ST. BENDIGO.

CHAPTER III
.--THE DEWELL.
The pursoot was rapid and sucksessful, and the MARKISS's challenge reyther disterbed the gilty pair at their ellegant breakfast. But CHARLES was as brave as he was fare, and, having hired his fust Second for twenty-five francs, and made a few other erangements, he met his hantigginest on the dedly field on the follering day at the hunerthly hour of six hay hem. CHARLES, with dedly haim, fired in the hair! but the MARKISS being bald, he missed him. The MARKISS's haim was even more dedly, for he, aperiently, shot his rival in his hart, for he fell down quite flat on the new-mown hay, and dishcullered it with his blud!
The MARKISS rushed up, and gave him one look of orror, and, throwing down a ￡1000 pound note, sed, "that for any one who brings him two," and, hurrying away to his Carridge, took the next train for Lundon. CHARLES recovered hisself emediately, and, pocketing the note, winked his eye at the second second, and, giving him a hundred-franc note for hisself, wiped away the stains of the rouge and water, and returned to breakfast with his gilty parrer-mour.

CHAPTER IV
.--THE END.
The poor MARKISS was so horryfied at his brillyant sucksess, that CHARLES's sanguinery corpse aunted his bed-side, and he died within a munth, a leetle munth, as Amlet says, of the dredful ewent, and CHARLES married his Widder. But, orful to relate, within a werry short time CHARLES was a sorrowin Widderer, with a nincum of sum ￡10,000 a year; and having purchased a Itallien titel for a hundred and fifty pound, it is said as he intends shortly to return to hold Hingland; and as the lovely Countess of BELGRAVIER is fortnetly becum a Widder, and a yung one, it is thought quite posserbel, by them as is behind the seens, like myself, for instance, that before many more munce is past and gone, there will be one lovely Widder and one andsum Widderer less than there is now; and we is all on us ankshushly looking forred to the day wen the gallant Count der WENNIS shall lead his lovely Bride to the halter of St. George's, Hannower Squeer, thus proving the truth of the Poet's fabel,--
"The rank is but the guinny's stamp, The Footman's the man for a' that."
* * * * *
WHERE ARE OUR DAIRYMAIDS?
A SONG OF VANISHED SUMMER.
["What has become of our Dairymaids?"--_Newspaper Question._]
AIR--"_THE DUTCHMAN'S LITTLE DOG_."
O where and O where is our Dairymaid gone? O where, O where can she be? With her skirts cut short and her hair cut long, O where, and O where is she?
Well, Summer is gone, and so is the Sun, And farming is nought but a bilk. When our Butter is Dutch, and our Cheese is Yank, Why, why should they leave us our Milk?
Our brave Queen BESS, as the Laureate says,[1] Might wish that a milkmaid were she; Whilst MAUDLIN in WALTON's bucolical days Could troll forth her ballad with glee.
But, alas! for the days of the stool and the churn, And the milking-pails brass-bound and bright! There is much to do and but little to earn In the Dairy, once IZAAK's delight.
Now Companies deal with the lacteal yield, And churns clank o' night at Vauxhall, Who dreams with delight of the buttercup'd field, Or Dun Suke in her sweet-smelling stall?
Milking the Cow, and churning the milk Made work for the maids long ago, But possible Dairymaids now dress in silk, _That's_ where our Dairymaids go.
Ah! DOLLY becomes a mechanical drudge, And SALLY--a something much worse. Through cowslip-pied meadows to merrily trudge Won't fill a maid's heart, or her purse.
The meadow at eve and the dairy at morn, And a song--from KIT MARLOW--between, Would fire a fine-dressed modern MAUDLIN with scorn, And move modish MOLLY to spleen.
The Dairymaid's true "golden age" is long fled With Summer, and pippins and cream; Like little _Bo-Peep_ and _Boy-Blue_, it is dead, Save as parts of a pastoral dream.
O where and O where is our Dairymaid gone? O where, and O where can she be? Well, they make cockney shop-girls of PHILLIS and JOAN, And I