Classic Poem

The Printer's is a happy lot:
Alone of all professions,
No fateful smudges ever blot
His earliest " impressions."

The outgrowth of his youthful ken
No cold obstruction fetters;
He quickly learns the " types" of men,
And all the world of " letters."

With " forms" he scorns to compromise;
For him no " rule" has terrors;
The " slips" he makes, he can " revise" —
They are but " printers' errors."

From doubtful questions of the " Press"
He wisely holds aloof;
In all polemics, more or less,
His argument is " proof."

Save in their " case," with High and Low,
Small need has he to grapple!
Without dissenThe still can go
To his accustomed " Chapel."

From ills that others scape or shirk,
He rarely fails to rally;
For him, his most " composing" work
Is labour of the " galley."

Though ways be foul, and days are dim,
He makes no lamentation;
The primal " fount" of woe to him
Is — want of occupation:

And when, at last, Time finds him gray
With over-close attention,
He solves the problem of the day,
And gets an Old Age pension.