As I came home to-day, mother, whom think you I should meet, But Harry--looking at a cab, upset in Oxford Street; He thought of when we met, to learn the Polka of Miss Rae-- But I'll be queen, if I may, mother; I'll be queen, if I may. They say he wears moustachios, that my chosen he may be; They say he's left off raking, mother--what is that to me? I shall meet all the Fusiliers upon the Chiswick day; And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen if I may. The night cabs come and go, mother, with panes of mended glass, And all the things about us seem to clatter as they pass; The roads are dry and dusty; it will be a fine, fine day, And I'm to be queen, if I may, mother; I'm to be queen, if I may. The weather-glass hung in the hall has turned to "fair" from "showers." The sea-weed crackles and feels dry, that's hanging 'midst the flowers, Vauxhall, too, is not open, so 'twill be a fine, fine day; And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may. So call me, if you're waking; call me, mother, from my rest-- The "Middle Horticultural" is sure to be the best. Of all the three this one will be the brightest, happiest day; And I will be queen, if I may, mother; I will be queen, if I may. II.--THE DAY AFTER. [_Slow, and with sad expression._] If you're waking, call me early; call me early, mother dear; The soaking rain of yesterday has spoilt my dress I fear; I've caught a shocking cold, mamma, so make a cup for me, Of what sly folks call, blackthorn, and facetious grocers, tea. I started forth in floss and flowers to have a pleasant day, When all at once down came the wet, and hurried all away; And now there's not a flower but is washed out by the rain: I wonder if the colours, mother, will come round again. I have been wild and wayward, but I am not wayward now, I think of my allowance, and I'm sure I don't know how I shall make both ends meet. Papa will be so very wild; He says, already mother, I'm his most expensive child. Just say to Harry a kind word, and tell him not to fret; Perhaps I was cross, but then he knows it was so very wet; Had it been fine--I cannot tell--he might have had my arm; But the bad weather ruined all, and spoilt my toilet's charm. I'll wear the dress again, mother; I do not care a pin,-- Or, perhaps, 'twill do for Effie, but it must be taken in; But do not let her see it yet--she's not so very green, And will not take it until washed and ironed it has been. So, if you're waking, call me, when the day begins to dawn; I dread to look at my _barege_--it must be so forlorn; We'll put it in the rough-dried box: it may come out next year; So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.