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. He made his last "impression" here While yet his heart was warm, Just in the "nick" closed his career, And death "locked up his form." He sank into his final rest Without one sigh or moan; His latest words—"Above my breast Place no 'imposing stone.'"