I sing of the Printer, in strains unpedantic,
For printing is simple and plain like my song ;
The day has gone by when the art was romantic,
And Printers wore swords to protect them from wrong.
They toiled in dim chapels, to brighten and bless
The fair brow of Freedom with jewels of thought,
And we who now live in the light of the Press
Are proud of these men and the marvels they wrought.
Then, Printers ! be proud of the art you pursue,
For the Press is the friend of the good and the true,
The Printer is like to a king and despots who laugh at a moral like me,
Because I am single, soon alter their tone
When met by the stern editorial "We."
The Printer is courted by peer and by peasant,
For Hodge,when he weds, sends the papers his name :
And Croesus, when dying, would deem it unpleasant
If Printers refused to emblazon his fame.
Then Printers ! be proud, &c. &c.
The Printer is like to a man on a tower
He sees far and wide as lie gazes around ;
The Press is his voice, and in accents of power
He tells of the wonderful scenes that abound.
He hears every sound that ascends from the earth
The song of the bard and the battle's wild roar
'Tis the Press that repeats both the moan and the mirth,
And echoes the strain when the music is o'er.
Then Printers ! be proud, &c., &c.
Notes
From the NSW Newspaper The Border Watch 14 May 1879 p. 3.
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