And the bright brimstone-bunch would burn
In every button-hole.
Our Dames were gaily on the wing,
With blossoms in full blow,
In the days when we went Primrosing,
A long time ago.
_Chorus._--In the days, &c.
But now Progressive storms prevail
Election blizzards chill;
The Primroses seem sparse and pale
In valley and on hill.
Yon cloud looks black as raven's wing!
Things did not menace so.
In the days when we went Primrosing
A long time ago!
_Chorus._--In the days, &c.
_Both._ Oh, brayvo, BOBBY!
_Master Robert._ Thanks. Yet my song's burden
Is dismal as the croakings of _Dame Durden_.
Our holiday is spoilt by driving showers.
I fear we shall have no great show of flowers;
But--anyhow my boys we're under cover;
And let us hope that storm-cloud will pass over
Without first giving us a dreadful drenching,
And all our April-hopes entirely quenching.
_All_ (_singing together_).
Rain! Rain!
Go away!
Come again
Another day!
[_Left crouching and singing._
* * * * *
FROM THE THEATRES, &C. COMMISSION.--"I am afraid," said Mr. P.S.
RUTLAND, speaking of the Music Halls, and in answer to a question
of Mr.
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