ed-side, and he died within
a munth, a leetle munth, as _Amlet_ says, of the dredful ewent, and
CHARLES married his Widder. But, orful to relate, within a werry short
time CHARLES was a sorrowin Widderer, with a nincum of sum L10,000 a
year; and having purchased a Itallien titel for a hundred and fifty
pound, it is said as he intends shortly to return to hold Hingland;
and as the lovely Countess of BELGRAVIER is fortnetly becum a Widder,
and a yung one, it is thought quite posserbel, by them as is behind
the seens, like myself, for instance, that before many more munce is
past and gone, there will be one lovely Widder and one andsum Widderer
less than there is now; and we is all on us ankshushly looking forred
to the day wen the gallant Count der WENNIS shall lead his lovely
Bride to the halter of St. George's, Hannower Squeer, thus proving the
truth of the Poet's fabel,--

"The rank is but the guinny's stamp,
The Footman's the man for a' that."

* * * * *

WHERE ARE OUR DAIRYMAIDS?

A SONG OF VANISHED SUMMER.

["What has become of our Dairymaids?"--_Newspaper Question._]

AIR--"_THE DUTCHMAN'S LITTLE DOG_."

O where and O where is our Dairymaid gone?
O where, O where can she be?
With her skirts cut short and her hair cut long,
O where, and O where is she?

Well, Summer is gone, and so is the Sun,
And farming is nought but a bilk.
When our Butter is Dutch, and our Cheese is Yank,
Why, why should they leave us our Milk?

Our brave Queen BESS, as the Laureate says,[1]
Might wish that a milkmaid were she;
Whilst MAUDLIN in WALTON's bucolical days
Could troll forth her ballad with glee.

But, alas! for the days of the stool and the churn,
And the milking-pails brass-bound and bright!
There is much to do and but little to earn
In the Dairy, once IZAAK's delight.

Now Companies deal with the lacteal yield,
And churns clank o' night at Vauxhall,
Who dreams with delight of the buttercup'd field,
Or Dun Suke in her sweet-smelling stall?

Milking the Cow, and churning the milk
Made work for the maids long ago,
But possible Dairymaids now dress in silk,
_That's_ where our Dairymaids go.

Ah! DOLLY becomes a mechanical drudge,
And SALLY--a something much worse.
Through cowslip-pied meadows to merrily trudge
Won't fill a maid's heart, or her purse.

The meadow at eve and the dairy at