Punch, or the London Charivari | Page 6

of good books in this "so-called (O, immortal phrase!) Nineteenth
Century." The Rev. THOMAS hath well and ably done his work, and
therefore doth the Baron advise his readers to go to their booksellers,
and, being there, to imitate the example of DICKENS's oft-quoted
_Oliver_, and "ask for MORE."
Quoth the Baron, "Much liketh me the Macmillanite series of _English
Men of Action_, and in a very special manner do I laud the latest that,
to my knowledge, hath appeared 'yclept _Montrose_, by Master
MOWBRAY MORRIS--a good many 'M's' in these names--who hath
executed his Montrose with as loving a heart and as tender a touch as
ever did use old IZAAK towards the gentle that he, and the simple fish,
did love so well. Did not the very hangman burst into tears as he thrust
the unfortunate nobleman off the step? and did not a universal sob of
pity break from the vast crowd assembled to see the last of the noble
cavalier, victim to an unfortunate tradition of loyalty? What wonder
then if we sympathise with this luckless hero of romance? The
weak-knee'd villain of this historical drama was 'Charles (his friend),'
in which character, be it allowed, this sad dog of a Merry Monarch not
infrequently appeared. Thank you much, Mr. MOWBRAY
MONTROSE MORRIS," quoth
THE BENEFICENT BARON DE BOOK-WORMS.

* * * * *
[Illustration: SYMPATHY.
Mamma (_to Cook_)--"AND MRS. STUBBS, THE CREAM WITH
THE APPLE-TART YESTERDAY OUGHT TO HAVE BEEN
WHIPPED."
Ethel (_who has a grateful remembrance of the dish in question_). "OH,
MUMMY DEAR! 'OUGHT TO HAVE BEEN WHIPPED!' I
THOUGHT IT WAS PARTICULARLY GOOD!"]
* * * * *
APRIL SHOWERS;
OR, A SPOILED EASTER HOLIDAY.
(_A VACATION CANTATA._)
_Master George (stretching forth his fingers to feel if the shower is
abating) sings_:-- Rain! Rain! Go away! Come again Another day!
Master Arthur (_gloomily_). Pooh! Rain won't go away, not in these
times, By being sung at to old nursery rhymes: Especially in such a
voice as yours!
_Master George._ Needn't be nasty, ARTHUR!
_Master Robert._ How it pours! Thought we were going to have a real
jolly day, And now it's set in wet, to spoil our holiday.
_Master George._ Always the way at Easter. Shall we trudge it?
_Master Arthur._ Not yet. What have you got, GEORGE, in your
Budget?
_Master George._ Not very much, I fear!

_Master Arthur._ Ah, that's vexatious! It might have cheered us up a
bit.
Master George (_indignantly_). Good gracious! You're always down
on me, with no good reasons. You know _I_'m not the ruler of the
Seasons. Now if I'd been in your place--but no matter!
_Master Robert._ By Jingo, how the raindrops rush and clatter! Ah,
Primrose-gathering is not half so jolly As once it used to be.
_Master Arthur._ Ah! my dear SOLLY, The springs are now so awfully
wet and cold, The "cry" don't seem so fetching as of old.
[_Pipes up._
Recitative. "_Who will buy my pretty, pretty Pri-im-ro-o-ses!_ _All
fresh gathered from the va-a-a-ll-ey?_"
_Master George._ The wet and cold have got into your throat, A quaver
and a crack on every note!
_Master Robert._ Don't aggravate each other, boys; 'tis wrong, But
while it rains _I_'ll tootle out a song:-- (_Sings._) The days we went
a-Primrosing!
AIR--"_The days we went a-Gipsying!_"
The days are gone, the happy days When we were in our Spring; When
all the Primrose loved to praise, And join its gathering. Oh! we could
sing like anything, We felt the conqueror's glow, In the days when we
went Primrosing, A long time ago.
_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