Punch: Punch (101.1891)

September 12, 1891.]

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

129

ROBERT'S ROMANCE,

c I have been so bothered for coppys of my

Romanse, as I read at the Cook's Swarry some
time back, that I have detummined to publish
/ it, and here it is. In coarse, all rites is reserved.

THE MYSTERY OF MAY FARE.

(By One Behind the Seens.)
Chapter I.—Despare !

It was Midnite ! The bewtifool Countess of Belgrayier sat at the
hopen winder of her Boodwar gazing on the full moon witch was jest
a rising up above the hopposite chimbleys. Why was that evenly
face, that princes had loved and Poets sillybrated, bathed in tears ?
How often had she, wile setting at that hopen winder, washed it with
Oder Colone, to remove the stanes of them tell tail tears ? But all
in wane, they wood keep running down that bewtifool face as if
enamelled with its buty ; and quite heedless of how they was a
spiling of her new ivory cullered sattin dress that Maddam Elise's
yung ladies had been a workin on up to five a clock that werry
arternoon.

She had bin to the great ball of the Season, to be washupped as
usual by the world of Fashun, but wot had driven her home at the
hunerthly hour of harf-parst Eleven? Ah, that cruel bio, that
deadly pang, that despaixin shok, must be kep for the nex chapter.

Chapter II.—The Helopemeant!

Seated in the Housekeeper's own Room at the Dock of Stjprey's
lovely Manshun, playfoolly patting his fatted calves, and surrounded
by his admiring cirkle, sat Charles, the ero of my Tale. Charles
was the idle of that large establishment. They simply adored him.
It was not only his manlv Vwty, tho that mite have made many an
Apoller envy him. It -\ - t only his nolledge of the world, tho in
that he was sooperior to > a Mimber of Parlyment from the Sister

Oil, but it was his stile, ms ace, his orty demeaner. The House-
keeper paid him marked attenshuns. The Ladies Maid supplyed him
with Sent for his ankerchers. The other Footmen looked up to him
as their moddel, and ewen the sollem Butler treated him with respec,
and sumtimes with sumthink else as he liked even better. The
leading Gentlemen from other Doocal establishments charted him
upon his success with the Fare, ewen among the werry hiest of
the Nobillerty, and Charles bore it all with a good-natured larf that
showed off his ivory teeth to perfecshun. Of course it was all in
fun, as they &nd, and probberly thort, till on this fatal ewening, the
noose spread 1 ox thxa>der, through the estonished world of Fashun,
that Charles had htloped with the welthy, the middle-aged, but
still bewtifool, Marchioness of St. Bendigo.

Chapter III.—The Dewell.

The pursoot was j '■ d and sueksessf ul, and the Markiss's challenge
reyther disterbe! Ll gilty pair at their ellegant breakfast. But
Charles was as brave as he was fare, and, having hired his fust
Second for twenty-five francs, and made a few other erangements, he
met his hantigginest on the dedly field on the f ollering _ day at the
hunerthly hour of six hay hem. Charles, with dedly haim, fired in
the hair f but the Markiss being bald, he missed him. The Mar-
kiss's haim was even more dedly, for he, aperiently, shot his rival
in his hart, for he fell down quite flat on the new-mown hay, and
dishcullered it with his blud!

The Markiss rushed up, and gave him one look of orror, and,
throwing down a £1000 pound note, sed, "that for any one who

brings him two," and, hurrying away to his Carridge, took the next
train for Lundon. Charles recovered hisself emediately, and,
pocketing the note, winked his eye at the second second, and, giving
him a hundred-franc note for hisself, wiped away the stains of the
rouge and water, and returned to breakfast with his gilty parrer-mour.

Chapter IV— The End.

The poor Markiss was so horryfied at his brillyant sucksess, that
Charles's sanguinery corpse aunted his bed-side, and he died within
a munth, a leetle munth, as Amlet says, of the dredful ewent, and
Charles married his Widder. But, orful to relate, within a werry
short time Charles was a sorrowin Widderer, with a nincum of
sum £10,000 a year ; and having purchased a Itallien titel for a
hundred and fifty pound, it is said as he intends shortly to return to
hold Hingland; and as the lovely Countess of Belgravier is fort-
netly becum a Widder, and a yung one, it is thought quite posserbel,
by them as is behind the seens, like myself, for instance, that before
many more munce is past and gone, there will be one lovely Widder
and one andsiun Widderer less than there is now ; and we is all on us
ankshushly looking forred to the day wen the gallant Count der
Wennis shall lead his lovely Bride to the halter of St. George's,
Hannower Squeer, thus proving the truth of the Poet's fabel,—
" The rank is but the guinny's stamp,
The Footman's the man for a' that."

WHERE ARE OUR DAIRYMAIDS ?

A Song of Vanished Summer.
[" What has become of our Dairymaids ? "—Newspaper Question.]
Km—"The Dutchman's Little Bog."

O where and O where is our Dairymaid gone ?

O where, O where can she be ?
With her skirts cut short and her hair cut long,

O where, and O where is she ?

Well, Summer is gone, and so is"the Sun,

And farming is nought but a bilk.
When our Butter is Dutch, and our Cheese is Yank,

Why, why should they leave us our Milk ?

Our brave Queen Bess, as the Laureate says,*

Might wish that a milkmaid were she ;
Whilst Maudlin in Walton's bucolical days

Could troll forth her ballad with glee.

But, alas! for the days of the stool and the churn,
And the milking-pails brass-bound and bright!

There is much to do and but little to earn
In the Dairy, once Izaak's delight.

Now Companies deal with the lacteal yield,

And churns clank o' night at Vauxhall,
Who dreams with delight of the buttercup'd field,

Or Dun Suke in her sweet-smelling stall ?

Milking the Cow, and churning the milk

Made work for the maids long ago,
But possible Dairymaids now dress in silk,

That's where our Dairymaids go.

Ah ! Dollx becomes a mechanical drudge,

And Sally—a something much worse.
Through cowslip-pied meadows to merrily trudge

Won't fill a maid's heart, or her purse.

The meadow at eve and the dairy at morn,
And a song—from Kit Marlow—between,

Would fire a fine-dressed modern Maudlin with scorn,
And move modish Molly to spleen.

The Dairymaid's true "golden age" is long fled

With Summer, and pippins and cream;
Like little Bo-Teep and Boy-Blue, it is dead,

Save as parts of a pastoral dream.

O where and O where is our Dairymaid gone ?

O where, and O where can she be ?
Well, they make cockney shop-girls of Phillis and Joan,
And I guess that they make such with she !
* "I wouid I were a milkmaid

To sing, lore, marry, churn, brew, bake and die."

Tennyson's Queen Mary.

A Matter op Corset.—At Sydenham, Ontario (it is stated), the
Corset has been declared to be " incompatible with Christianity!
If some of our fashionable dames uttered their innermost feelings
they would doubtless reply, " So much the worse for—Christianity._
It is so obvious that many modish Mammas care much more for their
daughters' bodices than their souls.