Classic Poem

A typo stood with stick in hand
And copy on his case,
But ne'er a type his fingers sought
For on his classic face
A look of deepest import dwelt,
As he that copy read —
'Twas in a little graceful fist,
And this is what it said:

" A nice yung femail gurl with eyes
" Of deepest likwid blew,
" And amply flowing awburn locks
" Wich natu-rally grew,
" Wood like aquaintice sweet to maik
" With vews to matri-mony —
" Adress, post-pade, box forty-six,
" To Mary jane Mahoney. "

He dropped the stick, procured a sub,
And then straightway indited
An answer to that " personal. "
Next morn he was delighted
A letter to receive — not paid —
In terms of warmest greeting,
Appointing for that very night
The place of their first meeting.

He changed his linen, washed his face,
Put on some borrowed clothes,
And with serene and joyous mien,
And blushing roman nose,
He sought the gushing Mary Jane —
That maid with Auburn hair, —
At their appointed rendezvous,
And found her waiting there.

At once she cried " O typo sweet,
" My own true love art thou
" Forever till death do us part —
I'd like ten dollars now.
But scarcely had she grasped the stamps
When to the swain's dismay
One Smith, who keeps a keno shop,
Stepped up and thus did say:

" My wife and I, young printer man,
" Must pray you to excuse
" Our further company to-night,
" Accept our kind adieux. "
That typo sadly turned away,
No smiles now lit his face;
He murmured " sold, " then heaved a sigh
And went back to his case.