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.7nbsp;7nbsp;7nbsp;7nbsp;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.7nbsp;7nbsp;7nbsp;7nbsp;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.7nbsp;7nbsp;7nbsp;7nbsp;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 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.
