_Master George_ (_indignantly_). Good gracious!
You're always down on me, with no good reasons.
You know _I_'m not the ruler of the Seasons.
Now if I'd been in _your_ place--but no matter!
_Master Robert._ By Jingo, how the raindrops rush and clatter!
Ah, Primrose-gathering is not half so jolly
As once it used to be.
_Master Arthur._ Ah! my dear SOLLY,
The springs are now so awfully wet and cold,
The "cry" don't seem so fetching as of old.
[_Pipes up._
_Recitative_. "_Who will buy my pretty, pretty Pri-im-ro-o-ses!_
_All fresh gathered from the va-a-a-ll-ey?_"
_Master George._ The wet and cold have got into your throat,
A quaver and a crack on every note!
_Master Robert._ Don't aggravate each other, boys; 'tis wrong,
But while it rains _I_'ll tootle out a song:--
(_Sings._) The days we went a-Primrosing!
AIR--"_The days we went a-Gipsying!_"
The days are gone, the happy days
When _we_ were in our Spring;
When all the Primrose loved to praise,
And join its gathering.
Oh! we could sing like anything,
We felt the conqueror's glow,
In the days when we went Primrosing,
A long time ago.
_Chorus._--In the days, &c.
Then April's flowery return
Was "Peace-with-Honour's" goal.
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