The servants and provision cart
As gaily trotting after.

The spot is reach'd-when all exclaim,
With many a joyous antic-

"How sweet a scene! I'm glad we came

How rural! how romantic!"

Half starved with hunger, parch'd with thirst.
All haste to spread the dishes,
When, lo! 'tis found the ale had burst

Among the loaves and fishes!

Over the pie a sudden hop

The grasshoppers are skipping; Each roll's a sponge, each loaf a mop, And all the meat is dripping!

Bristling with broken glass, you find
Some cakes among the bottles-
Which those may eat who do not mind
Excoriated throttles!

The biscuits now are wiped and dried,
When squalling voices utter-
"Look! look! a toad has got astride
Our only pot of butter!"

Your solids in a liquid state,

Your cooling liquids heated,

And ev'ry promis'd joy by fate
Most fatally defeated.

All, save the serving-men, are soured

They smirk-the cunning sinnersHaving, before they came, devoured Most comfortable dinners!

Still you assume, in very spite,
A grim and gloomy sadness;
Pretend to laugh-affect delight-
And scorn all show of sadness!

While thus you smile, but storm within,
A storm without comes faster,
And down descends, in deafening din,
A deluge of disaster.

"Tis sauve que peut-the fruit desert
Is fruitlessly deserted;

And homeward now you all revert,
Dull, desolate, and dirtied!
Each gruffly grumbling, as he eyes
His soaked and sullen brother-
"If these are pic-nic pleasantries,
Preserve me from another !"

THE BUTTERFLY BEAU.-ANON.

I'm a volatile thing, with exquisite wing,
Sprinkled o'er with the tints of the rainbow;
All the butterflies swarm to behold my sweet form,
Though the grubs may all vote me a vain beau.

I

my toilet go through with rose-water dew,

And each blossom contributes its essence;

Then-all fragrance and grace, not a plume out of place, I adorn the gay world with my presence—

In short, you must know,

I'm the butterfly beau.

At first I enchant a fair Sensitive plant,

Then 1 flirt with the Pink of perfection;
Then I seek a sweet Pea, and I whisper, "For thee
I have long felt a strong predilection":

A Lily I kiss, and exult in my bliss,

But I very soon search for a new lip;

And I pause in my flight, to exclaim with delight"O, how dearly I love you, my Tulip!"

In short, you must know,

I'm the butterfly beau

Thus forever I rove, and the honey of love
From cach delicate blossom I pilfer,—
But though many I see pale and pining for me,
I know none that are worth growing ill for;
And though I must own, there are some that I've known,
Whose external attractions are splendid,

On myself I must doat, for in my pretty coat,
All the tints of the garden are blended;—

In short, you must know,

I'm the butterfly beau!

MISS MARY-WHAT SHE IS, AND WHAT SHE DOES.—ANON

MISS MARY is a charming maid,

A comely lass is she;

She every morning coffee drinks,
At evening, sips her tea.

She's never gadding in the street,
But loves to stay at home,
Her eyes are parted by her nose-
Her ringlets by a comb.

She has a very pretty foot,
And sometimes wears prunella;
On sunny days she sports a shawl—
On rainy, an umbrella.

On

She's virtue's self personified

She scorns to do a wrong;

She keeps her tongue between her teeth,
Where's people's tongues belong.

The poor have always found her kind,
She weeps for other's woe;

On Sunday eve she sits alone,
Unless she has a beau!

Each leisure moment she employs,

To cultivate her mind;
She ties her apron on before-
And sometimes on behind.

Whenever she a shopping went,
She paid for what she bought;
In sleep she always shuts her mouth,
As every body ought,

Small faults she has, and who has not,
She strives them to reform;
When her toes are trampled upon—
She says "get off my corn!"

Accomplishments like these would make
A match for Count or Earl;
And all the neigbors say she is
A pattern of a girl.

SPECIMEN OF A SHREW.-ANON.

Do

BAI! that's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. What were you to do! Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain there was nothing about him that could spoil. Take cold, indeed! He does'nt look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd have better taken cold than taken our umbrella. you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear the rain? And as I'm alive, if it is'nt St. Swithin's day! Do you hear it against the windows? Nonsense: you don't impose upon me; you can't be asleep with such a shower as that! Do you hear it, I say? Oh! you do hear it! Well, that's a pretty flood, I think, to last for six weeks. and no stirring all the time out of the house. Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle; don't insult me; he return the umbrella! Anybody would think you were born yesterday. As

if anybody ever did return an umbrella! There do you hear Cats and dogs, and for six weeks:

it? Worse and worse.

always six weeks; and no umbrella!

I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow. They shan't go through such weather; I am determined. No; they shall stop at home and never learn any. thing, (the blessed creatures!) sooner than go and get wet! And when they grew up, I wonder who they 'll have to thank for knowing nothing: who, indeed, but their father. People who can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers. But I know why you lent the umbrella: oh! yes, I know very well. I was going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow: you knew that, and you did it on purpose. Don't tell me ; you hate me to go there, and take every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it Mr. Caudle; no, sir; if it comes down in buckets full, I'll go all the more. No; and I won't have a cab! Where do you think the money's to come from? You've got nice high notions at that club of yours? A cab, indeed! Cost me sixteen-pence! two-and-eight-pence; for there's back again. Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who's to pay for 'em; for I'm sure you can't, if you go on as you do, throwing away your property, and beggaring your children, buying umbrellas!

Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But I don't care-] -I'll go to mother's to-morrow-I will; and what's more I'll walk every step of the that will give me my death. it's you that's the foolish man. and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give me a cold: it always does; but what do you care for that? Nothing at all.

way; and you know Don't call me a foolish woman; You know I can't wear clogs;

I

may be laid up for what you care, as I dare say I shall; and a pretty doctor 's bill there'll be. I hope there will. It will teach you to lend your umbrellas again. I shouldn't wonder if I caught my death: yes, and that's what you lent the umbrella for. Of course!

Nice clothes I get, too, traipsing through weather like this. My gown and bonnet will be spoiled quite. Needn't I wear