PASTORAL.

[An evening paper calls attention to the fact that a campaign is to be conducted against the Worcestershire warble-fly by means of a newly-invented patent soap. Good results are expected, but there is danger, as the author of the following lines points out, of sentiment proving too strong for the would-be executioner.
  Editorial Note: Our contributor informs us that he had intended to write this little song in the Worcestershire dialect, but it gave out and he had to fall back on Loamshire.]
 

Oh, as I wor drivin’ down-along
 By Upton Snodsbury
I seed a gradely warble-fly
 A-warbling on a tree;
He warbled up and down the scale
 And never off the key.

  With his Do Re Mi
   Fa Sol La Si
    Do.

 

The breeze wor blowin’ gorble-like,
 The sun wor in the sky;
And still he warbled on and on,
 That liddle warble-fly;
I give him a bumblesome sort o’ look
 And he looked back at I.

  With his Hey nonny nonny,
   His Hey nonny nonny
    No.

 

I had my tin of patent soap
 Beside me in the cart;
I meant to smear a dab on he,
 But there! I couldn’t start,
For he sang a song of Home, Sweet Home,
 A song that touched my heart.

  With his fol-de-rol-de-riddle,
   His fol-de-rol-de-riddle
    I-do.

 

Oh! take me back to Worcester,
 For it’s there that I would be,
In fair White Ladies Aston
 Or in pleasant Ombresley,
When the sauce is in the bottle
 And the warble warbles free.

  With his tiddley-iddley-om,
   His tiddley-iddley-om
    Pom, pom.    P. G. W.

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