The history of a singer’s latest love--whether fortunate or otherwise--will always command the interest and attention of a Music-hall audience. Our example, which is founded upon the very best precedents, derives an additional piquancy from the social position of the beloved object. Cultivated readers are requested not to shudder at the rhymes. _Mr. Punch’s_ Poet does them deliberately and in cold blood, being convinced that without these somewhat daring concords, no ditty would have the slightest chance of satisfying the great ear of the Music-hall public. The title of the song is:-- MASHED BY A MARCHIONESS. _The singer should come on correctly and tastefully attired in a suit of loud dittoes, a startling tie, and a white hat_--_the orthodox costume (on the Music-hall stage) of a middle-class swain suffering from love-sickness. The air should be of the conventional jog-trot and jingle order, chastened by a sentimental melancholy._ I’ve lately gone and lost my ’art--and where you’ll never guess-- I’m regularly mashed upon a lovely Marchioness! ’Twas at a Fancy Fair we met, inside the Albert ’All; So affable she smiled at me as I came near her stall! _Chorus_--Don’t tell me Belgravia is stiff in behaviour! She’d an Uncle an Earl, and a Dook for her Pa-- Still there was no starchiness in that fair Marchioness, As she stood at her stall in the Fancy Bazaar! At titles and distinctions once I’d ignorantly scoff, As if no bond could be betwixt the tradesman and the toff! I held with those who’d do away with difference in ranks-- But that was all before I met the Marchioness of Manx! _Chorus_--Don’t tell me Belgravia, &c. A home was being started by some kind aristo-cràts, For orphan kittens, born of poor, but well-connected cats; And of the swells who planned a _Fête_ this object to assist, The Marchioness of Manx’s name stood foremost on the list. _Chorus_--Don’t tell me Belgravia, &c. I never saw a smarter hand at serving in a shop, For every likely customer she caught upon the ’op! And from the form her ladyship displayed at that Bazaar, (_With enthusiasm_)--You might have took your oath she’d been brought up behind a bar! _Chorus_--Don’t tell me Belgravia, &c. In vain I tried to kid her that my purse had been forgot, She spotted me in ’alf a jiff, and chaffed me precious hot! A sov. for one regaliar she gammoned me to spend. “You really can’t refuse,” she said, “I’ve bitten off the end!” [Illustration: THE AMATORY EPISODIC.] _Chorus_--Don’t tell me Belgravia, &c.