JOLLY JULY.
The storm of rain comes swirling down,
Our helpless flow'rets droop and die;
The thunder crashes o'er the town—
In wet July.
Our cricket-match is spoilt, the stumps
We draw beneath a drenching sky;
Then homeward wend in doleful dumps—
In wet July.
The lawn's a lake, whereon there float
The balls that erst would o'er it fly;
We can't play tennis from a boat,
In wet July.
Our garden-party's ruined quite,
Of invitations friends fight shy;
They wisely shun the sloppy sight
In wet July.
Take that old aneroid away,
A new barometer we'll try;
With hope for haply one fine day—
In wet July.
BEATING THE RECORD.—Mrs. MALAPROP's "Cerberus, as three single gentlemen rolled into one," was "not in it" last week with H.R.H. the Prince of WALES, who, in the course of the Royal Entertainments given to our Imperial Cousin-German, appeared as "a host of illustrious personages." An admirable performance.