A Liberator Lay.
Three little roguey-boys said to Conscience—"Pooh!"
Croydon made one its Mayor, and then there were two.
Two little roguey-boys thought that Fraud was fun;
A Judge thought otherwise, and then there was one.
One little roguey-boy took the Chiltern Hun-
dreds upon his road to Spain, and then there was none!
Walking Round His Subject.—In Tay Pay's interesting review of The Life of Lord Aberdeen, a Book of the Week in the Sun, there is a delightful chord which shows that "the harp that once thro' Tara's halls" still upon occasion twangs. "It is pleasant," says Tay Pay, writing of Mr. Gladstone, "to be able to project ourselves backward to the time, when the statesman we know as full of years and the idol of millions, was the bashful, self-distrustful youth." Now, if next week our young friend, whose sympathy with bashful, self-distrustful youth, is instinctive, will manage to withdraw himself forward, he may be said to have thoroughly reconnoitered his subject, an excellent thing in a reviewer.
ASSISTED EDUCATION.
Christabel. "I say, Jack, how ever do you define the Equator?"
Jack (who has been to the Circus). "Isn't it a Menagerie Lion that goes round the World?"
Jack has learnt about "the Imaginary Line," and got the answer a little mixed.
THE VILLAGE BEAUTY AND
THE RIVAL SWAINS.
An Easter Eclogue.
| Chloe | Miss Hodge |
| Corydon | H. H. F-wl-r |
| Strephon | J. G. G-sch-n. |
Corydon (smirking). I have found out a gift for my fair,
Such as sugary Shenstone ne'er found!
Strephon (aside, sniffing). His bowpot's made up, I declare,
Half of flowers he's filched from my ground!
Chloe (pirouetting). Oh la! What a lovely bokay!
That for me! Oh, you're awfully kyind!
Corydon (ogling). Ah! I've loved you this many a day!
Strephon (sighing). And for years you've been first in my mind!
Chloe (aside). My! Isn't it nice to be courted like this?
I believe I could buy 'em both up with a kiss!
Corydon (gloating). Love, you dance just as Perdita danced!
You must be a Princess in disguise.
Strephon (aside). And not long since he swore that she pranced
Likes a clown who contends for a prize.
Chloe (bridling). Me a Princess? Oh la! that's your fun.
You know that my feyther was Hodge!
Strephon (aside). Of course; but, providing she's won,
He'll descend to the paltriest dodge.
Corydon (effusively). You're the Pride of the Village, and fashioned to rule
In the Cottage, the Council, the Church, and the School!
Chloe (coyly). You're a flattering of me, young man!
Corydon (ardently). If I am, maay I forfeit your—Vote!
Chloe. Well, of course, I will do what I can,
As the Parish-princess, to promote
The—what is it you want me to do?
Yes, the Poor—and the Ditches—and Drains,
The Rates—I do hope they'll be few!
The Allotments—I trust they'll be gains!
But the Squire and the Parson? Oh! Corydon mine,
When they hear what you've done, won't they kick up a shine?
Corydon (brusquely). Oh! the Squire and the Parson be—blowed!
All too long they've been cocks o' the walk.
Strephon (eagerly). Quite right! How this buzzum has glowed
Your twin tyrants to baffle and baulk!
Corydon (contemptuously). You've dissembled your—hate for them well,
Master Strephon! It never leaked out
Till we made Patient Grizzel a belle!
Now you'd like to cut in, I've no doubt.
Chloe (coquettishly). La sakes! do not quarrel!
You're both very kyind,
But—I fancy dear Corydon's most to my mind.
[Beams on him, and accepts the Bouquet.
Strephon (suppressing himself). Well, well, 'tis the fortune of war!
As it's holiday season, let's sing,
Should Shepherds at Eastertide jar?
Suave Shenstone would scout such a thing.
I wish you and Corydon luck—
The posy he's plucked you looks fine;
Though I must say my fancy it struck,
It was not wholly new—in design.
However, dear Chloe, you're sweet; 'tis fair weather;
So, Corydon, let's sing her praises—together—
They sing:—
Her charms—since she possessed the Vote—
Are things on which the swains all dote.
Fearing to flout or slight.
She dances, having now her way,
No bygone Easter holiday
E'er saw so fine a sight!
Our village Belle with anyone
Dares now to make comparison.
Fair nymph, this Easter fun done,
With proudest County Toast, though fair,
You may compete or charms compare
With the haughtiest "Pride of London!"
Astounding Report.—There is no foundation whatever for the report of the resignation of Lord Herschell. It probably arose from some incautious and slangy person speaking of him in his office of Lord Chancellor as having "got the sack." Obviously the Wool-sack was intended.