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 _barége_—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. "OUGHT OLIVER CROMWELL TO HAVE A STATUE?"