But now Progressive storms prevail Election blizzards chill; The Primroses seem sparse and pale In valley and on hill. Yon cloud looks black as raven's wing! Things did not menace so. In the days when we went Primrosing A long time ago! _Chorus._--In the days, &c. _Both._ Oh, brayvo, BOBBY! _Master Robert._ Thanks. Yet my song's burden Is dismal as the croakings of _Dame Durden_. Our holiday is spoilt by driving showers. I fear we shall have no great show of flowers; But--anyhow my boys we're under cover; And let us hope that storm-cloud will pass over 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;