THE LORD MAYOR IN IRELAND. It is sad pity the City of London broke off their bargain about the Connaught waste land. Everybody was waiting for the fun, when his Civic Majesty should pay his state visit to the Kingdom of Bogs that he had added to that of Gog's. How the "boys" would have laughed to see the whole procession stick fast in the mud, and the man in armour, weighed down in his own scales, sink up to his helmet in the swamp. How the "finest pisinthry" would have cheered to see the gilt coach, Lord Mayor, Recorder and all, suddenly disappear in the illigant muck. In compliment to his new subjects, the Emperor of all the Bogs and Gogs, of course, would have ordered the faithful Birch (for spare the birch spoil the "boys") to supply a "feast" replete with every Irish delicacy of the season. The bill of fare for this most probably would have been, _First Course_—Praties wid de bones in 'em; _Remove_—the smallest taste in life of salt mate, to make the poteen come like a "rale blessin." Then to win the hearts of his new subjects the King of Cockneydom would, doubtlessly, have spoken in the richest brogue he could manage. At Donnybrook he would have chucked all the girls under the chin and called them "_Macrees_," and "_Astores;_" and delighted the men by flourishing his shillelah and crying "Och! Goroo! Goroo! Tare an 'ouns will nobody thrid on the tails of my gownd?" while, to complete the thing, he would have directed the "Mace-bearer, darlint, to feel round the tint for the bald hids of the Aldermin." Realty our London _Mayors_ are almost as strange animals as the Irish Bulls. [Illustration: "The Lord Mayors—Show— And—The Lord Mayors Feast —in—IRELAND" ] [Illustration: The Fearful, but probable ultimate effects of—feeding John Bull—upon Foreign produce ] [Illustration: AGRICULTURAL DISTRESS. ] DREADFUL CASE OF AGRICULTURAL DISTRESS. The state of the British Farmer is growing desperate. Unless something is done quickly, they will ere long become mere men of straw. As it is, the distress prevalent in the different counties has nearly reached its climax. The farmers are so tied down in NOTTS that scarcely any of them have tasted Champagne for the last six months. There isn't a man in BEDS that dreams of hunting more than twice a-week, and OXON, nearly mad from being driven so hard, has scarcely a dozen families in which the French language is spoken.