A donkey laid him down to sleep,
And as he slept and snored full deep,
He was observed (strange sight) to weep,
As if in anguished mood.
A gentle mule that lay near by,
The donkey roused, and, with a sigh,
In kindly voice inquired why
Those tears he did exude.
The donkey, while he trembled o'er
And dropped cold sweat from every pore,
Made answer in a fearful roar:
"I dreamed I was a dude!"
TOM TYPO.
Tom Typo was a printer good,
A merry, cheerful elf;
And whatsoever care he had,
He still "composed" himself.
Where duty called him he was found
Still working in his place;
But nothing tempted from his post—
Which really was the "case."
He courted pretty Emma Grey,
One of earth's living gems—
The sweetest Em, he used to say,
Among a thousand "ems."
So "chased" was Emma's love for Tom,
It met admiring eyes;
She "proved" a "copy" to her sex.
And wanted no "revise."
And Tom, he kept his "pages" clear
And grew to be a "type"
Of all that manhood holds most dear,
When he with age was ripe.