The Happy Printer

"Hoc est vivere."--MARTIAL.     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 dissent he still can go     To his accustomed "Chapel,"[1]     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 grey     With over-close attention,     He solves the problem of the day,     And gets an Old Age pension.