Ah! DOLLY 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-Peep_ 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_!

[Footnote 1:

"I would I were a milkmaid
To sing, love, marry, churn, brew, bake and die."

TENNYSON's _Queen Mary_.]

* * * * *

A MATTER OF CORSET.--At Sydenham, Ontario (it is stated), the Corset