The Bray of the Last Donkey.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The donkey was infirm and old;
His wrinkled nose and rough coat grey,
Seemed to have known a better day;
A whip, that sadden’d all his joy,
Was wielded by an awful boy;
The last of all his race was he,
Who lived in age of chivalry.
For, well-a-day, their date had fled,