THE VILLAGE BEAUTY AND THE RIVAL SWAINS.

Corydon (smirking). I have found out a gift for my fair, Such as sugary Shenstone ne'er found! Strephon (aside, sniffing). His bowpot's made up, I declare, Half of flowers he's filched from my ground! Chloe (pirouetting). Oh la! What a lovely bokay! That for me! Oh, you're awfully kyind! Corydon (ogling). Ah! I've loved you this many a day! Strephon (sighing). And for years you've been first in my mind! Chloe (aside). My! Isn't it nice to be courted like this? I believe I could buy 'em both up with a kiss! Corydon (gloating). Love, you dance just as Perdita danced! You must be a Princess in disguise. Strephon (aside). And not long since he swore that she pranced Likes a clown who contends for a prize. Chloe (bridling). Me a Princess? Oh la! that's your fun. You know that my feyther was Hodge! Strephon (aside). Of course; but, providing she's won, He'll descend to the paltriest dodge. Corydon (effusively). You're the Pride of the Village, and fashioned to rule In the Cottage, the Council, the Church, and the School! Chloe (coyly). You're a flattering of me, young man! Corydon (ardently). If I am, maay I forfeit your—Vote! Chloe. Well, of course, I will do what I can, As the Parish-princess, to promote The—what is it you want me to do? Yes, the Poor—and the Ditches—and Drains, The Rates—I do hope they'll be few! The Allotments—I trust they'll be gains! But the Squire and the Parson? Oh! Corydon mine, When they hear what you've done, won't they kick up a shine? Corydon (brusquely). Oh! the Squire and the Parson be—blowed! All too long they've been cocks o' the walk. Strephon (eagerly). Quite right! How this buzzum has glowed Your twin tyrants to baffle and baulk! Corydon (contemptuously). You've dissembled your—hate for them well, Master Strephon! It never leaked out Till we made Patient Grizzel a belle! Now you'd like to cut in, I've no doubt. Chloe (coquettishly). La sakes! do not quarrel! You're both very kyind, But—I fancy dear Corydon's most to my mind. [Beams on him, and accepts the Bouquet. Strephon (suppressing himself). Well, well, 'tis the fortune of war! As it's holiday season, let's sing, Should Shepherds at Eastertide jar? Suave Shenstone would scout such a thing. I wish you and Corydon luck— The posy he's plucked you looks fine; Though I must say my fancy it struck, It was not wholly new—in design. However, dear Chloe, you're sweet; 'tis fair weather; So, Corydon, let's sing her praises—together— They sing:— Her charms—since she possessed the Vote— Are things on which the swains all dote. Fearing to flout or slight. She dances, having now her way, No bygone Easter holiday E'er saw so fine a sight! Our village Belle with anyone Dares now to make comparison. Fair nymph, this Easter fun done, With proudest County Toast, though fair, You may compete or charms compare With the haughtiest "Pride of London!"

O Passmore Edwards, you, beyond contention, Are worthy Punch's "Honourable Mention." Whenever there be any boons a-brewing You're very sure, Sir, to be up and doing! There's scarce a project schemed with kindly sense, But profits by your large munificence. Punch won't forget to pray when passing bedwards, For you—and for more bricks like Passmore Edwards!

Butchered—to make an Easter Holiday, For Orangemen who yearn to have their say! They've got political delirium tremens. Orange? Nay, they're sour as unripe lemons!

Country Vestrydom's called, by its new-fangled rival, (The smart "Parish Council") "decrepit survival." P. C., be not hard on the old form thou twittest! Thou yet hast to prove thy "Survival" the "fittest."