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.

* * * * *

[Illustration: APRIL SHOWERS; OR, A SPOILT EASTER HOLIDAY.

TRIO. "RAIN! RAIN! GO AWAY! COME AGAIN ANOTHER DAY!"]

* * * * *

TO MY COOK.

[Illustration]

Oh, hard of favour, fat of form,
How fairer art thou than thy looks,
Whose heart with kitchen fires is warm,
Thou plainest of the plainer Cooks!

Low down upon thy forehead grows
Thick hair of no conducive dye;
Short and aspiring is thy nose,
Watched ever by a furtive eye.

In shy defiance rarely seen
Where kitchen stairways darkly tend,
A foe to judge thee by thy mien,
Proclaimed in every act a friend!

I know thee little; not thy views
On public or on private life,
Whether a single lot thou'dst choose,
Or fain would'st be a Guardsman's wife;

For who can rightly read the change
When, still'd the work-day traffic's din,
In best apparel, rich and strange,
Thou passest weekly to thy kin!

A silken gown, that bravely stands
Environing thy form, or no;
Stout gloves upon thy straining hands,
For brooch, the breastplate cameo.

Shod with the well-heeled boots, whose knell
Afar along the pavement sounds,
Blent with the tinkling muffin-bell,
Or milkman, shrilling on his rounds.

_Nil tangis quod non ornas._ Nay,
'Tis not alone the parsley sprig,
The paper frill, the fennel spray,
The Yule-tide's pertly-berried twig;

But common objects by thy art
Some proper beauty seem to own;
Thy chop is as a chop ap