The Printer's Consolation

The Printer's Consolation

Tell me, ye gentle winds

That round my pathway play,

Is there no place on earth

Where printer's get their pay?

The whispering breeze went by

With accents filled with woe;

A voice borne on the sorrowing air,

In sadness answered "No."

Tell me, ye flowing streams,

That smoothly glide along,

Is there no cherished place

Where printers meet no wrong?

The gentle brook replied,

In murmurs soft and low,

And winding on its verdant way,

It meekly answered "No."

Tell me, ye murky clouds,

Now rising in the west,

Is there upon the globe

One spot by printer's blest?

The flashing clouds outspoke

With an indignant glow—

A voice that filled the dearth with awe

In thunder answered "No."

Tell me, hard-hearted man,

Withholding day by day,

Is there no honor in thy breast

The printer's bill to pay?

Unanswering turns he round—

How plain his actions show—

An uttered oath-capped sound is heard,

His actions answer "No."

Tell me, ye gentle nymphs

Who bless life's pathway through,

Is there no sacred shrine

Where printers get their due?

A mantling blush each cheek diffused

Did tenfold grace impart—

A soft, responsive sigh replied,

"'Tis found in woman's heart."

Tell me, angelic hosts,

Ye messengers of love,

Shall suffering printers here below

Have no redress above?

The angel bands replied,

"To us is knowledge given—

Delinquents on the printer's books

Can never enter Heaven."

1:18, p. 4

11.19.1859