Volume 101 — JOLLY JULY.
Reading edition
The storm of rain comes swirling down, Our helpless flow'rets droop and die; The thunder crashes o'er the town— In wet July. Our cricket-match is spoilt, the stumps We draw beneath a drenching sky; Then homeward wend in doleful dumps— In wet July. The lawn's a lake, whereon there float The balls that erst would o'er it fly; We can't play tennis from a boat, In wet July. Our garden-party's ruined quite, Of invitations friends fight shy; They wisely shun the sloppy sight In wet July. Take that old aneroid away, A new barometer we'll try; With hope for haply one fine day— In wet July.
BEATING THE RECORD.—Mrs. MALAPROP's "Cerberus, as three single gentlemen rolled into one," was "not in it" last week with H.R.H. the Prince of WALES, who, in the course of the Royal Entertainments given to our Imperial Cousin-German, appeared as "a host of illustrious personages." An admirable performance.
A Nursery Echo from Carlow.
PARNELL put the KETTLE on, TIM HEALY came it rather strong, HAMMOND was the people's man, And he's now M.P.
IN DESPERATE STRAITS.
Jones
(
Blue Ribbon—to abstemious Lady he has taken in to dinner
). "LOOK HERE, MADAM, WE DON'T SEEM TO BE GETTING ON A
BIT
! EITHER YOU MUST HAVE A GLASS OF CHAMPAGNE, OR, BY JOVE,
I
MUST!!"