G.O.M. sings:—­

  How happy could I be with heifer,
    If sure it were only her play. 
  Is’t LABBY? or Labour?  Together
    In one?  I’ll get out of the way.
  Singing (to myself)—­With my tol de rol de rol LABBY, &c.

  She comes!  On her horns she is playing
    A tune with a nourish or two! 
  No cow-herd am I but my staying
    To play second fiddle won’t do.
  Singing (to myself)—­With my tol de rol tol-e-rate LABBY, &c.

  Don’t chivey her!  I would allot her
    “Three acres,” and lots of sweet hay. 
  Alas! while I’m talking, they’ve shot her! 
    Well! heifers, like dogs, have their day!
  Singing (to myself, as before)—­With my tol lol de rol-licking
          LABBY, &c.

Latest.—­After dinner, Mr. GLADSTONE fell asleep in his chair!  He was seen to smile, although his repose seemed somewhat disturbed.  Presently he was heard to murmur melodiously the words of the old song, slightly adapted to the most recent event,—­“Heifer of thee I’m fondly dreaming!” Then a shudder ran through his frame as he pronounced softly a Latin sentence; it was “Labor omnia vincit!” Then he awoke.

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SONGS OUT OF SEASON.

NO.  II.—­KEW-RIOUS!

  It’s a pleasure worth the danger,
    Deems your gorgeous DE LA PLUCHE,
  To become the main arranger
    Of a drive in your barouche;
  And your Coachman, honest JOE too,
    When approached thereon by JEAMES,
  Doesn’t say exactly “no,” to
    Such inviting little schemes.

  JEAMES has doffed them “’orrid knee-things;”
    Plush gives way to tweed and socks;
  And a hamper with the tea-things,
    Fills his place upon the box;
  With MARIA, JANE, and HEMMA,
    He is playing archest games,
  And they’re in the sweet dilemma,
    Who shall make the most of JAMES.

  Mr. COACHMAN smokes his pipe on
    His accustomed throne of pride,
  And, through driving, keeps an eye ’pon
    All the revellers inside. 
  Mrs. COACHMAN there is seated;
    Children twain are on her lapped,
  Who alternately are treated,
    And alternately are slapped.

  While the painters haunt your mansion,
    And you’re “Hup” “The Halps” or “Rhind,”
  Your domestics find expansion
    In diversions of the kind;
  And on such a day as this is,
    They will drink the health at Kew,
  Of “The Master and the Missis,
    And their bloomin’ kerridge too!”

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THE PALLIUM AND ARCHIEPISCOPAL OATH CONTROVERSY IN THE “TIMES.”—­No wonder this is a very dry subject, when they’ve got such a strong THURST-ON among them.  Our advice, by way of moistening it, is, “Drop it!”

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