A NEW VERSION OF AN OLD FABLE.

A Lion once, by hunters pressed, He jumped out of his skin: A Donkey found it, passing by, And straightway he jumped in. He stretched his legs, he switched his tail, He grinned in triumph vain, And snugly hid a foot of ears Among the shaggy mane. At sight of him, on every side The beasts began to 'shin it;' As frightened at the lion's hide As if himself were in it. Nor sight alone contented him, But try his voice he would; And brayed as like a lion's roar As ever a jackass could. Just then upon the road he saw His master, honest man; Quoth would-be lion to himself, 'I'll scare him, if I can!' An extra flourish then he flung, Too lustily no doubt, For, shaken from their hiding-place, Lo! his long ears stuck out! His master took the timely hint, And ere the joke was done, He curried off the lion-skin, And laid the cow-skin on.

With empty heads in borrowed locks, Thus Dandies throng Broadway, And strut as if they were in truth The Lions of the day. And why the cow-skin follows not. Would you the reason know? Dame Nature has encased them all In calf-skin long ago.