FINALE.

_Lydia._ I thought to slowly fade away so calm and beautiful.
(Though I didn't mean to go just yet);
But you get no chance for pathos when you're chivied by a bull!
(So I thought I wouldn't go just yet.)
For I did feel so upset, when I found that all you get
By the exercise of virtue, is that bulls will come and hurt you!
That I thought I wouldn't go just yet!

_Chorus._ We hear, with some regret,
That she doesn't mean to go just yet.
But a Bull with horns that hurt you is a poor return for virtue,
And she's wiser not to go just yet!

[_The Bull rises on his hindlegs, and gives a forehoof each to_ LYDIA
_and_ JACK, _who dance wildly round and round as the Curtain falls_.

[N.B.--Music-hall Managers are warned that the morality of this
particular Drama may possibly be called in question by some members of
the L. C. C.]

* * * * *

[Illustration: A RETIRING YOUNG MAN.

(_Positively his Last Appearance._)]

I linger on the same old stage
Which I have graced so long,
Though oft, when sick, or in a rage,
I've sworn to give up song,
Still somehow, like mellifluous REEVES,
I flow, and flow, and flow.
Stage-stars, though fond of taking leaves
Are very loth to go.

Teutons, once again,
Greet me once again!
Old songs I'm singing,
Shall I sing in vain?

Once more I front the same old House,
And hear the same "_Encore!_"
My rivals slink as slinks the mouse
When Leo lifts his roar.
I'll take my turn with potent voice,
In solo or in glee.
At my _rentree_ my friends rejoice
They only wanted ME!

Teutons, once again!
Greet me once again!
Old strength is waking,
Shall it wake in vain?

* * * * *

THE CRY OF THE CITY CHILDREN.

(_For Playing Fields._)

[A conference of delegates of various Athletic Clubs was held on
March 4, in the Memorial Hall, Farringdon Street, for the purpose of
considering the necessity for the further provision of Playing
fields for the people of the Metropolis.]

Would you see Town Children playing, O my brothers,
With their bats and leathern spheres?
They are herding where the slum-reek fumes and smothers,
And _that_ isn't play, one fears.
The young rustics bat in verdant meadows,
The young swells are "scrummaging" out west;
_Th