Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Printers' Song

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The Printers' Song.
Print, comrades, print; a noble task
 Is the one we daily ply;
'Tis ours to tell to all who ask
 The wonders of earth and sky.
We catch the thought, all glowing warm,
 As it leaves the student's brain,
And place the stamp of enduring form
 On the poet's airy strain.
  Then let us sing, as we nimbly fling
   The slender letters round—
  A glorious thing is our labouring,
   Oh, where may its like be found?

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Print, comrades, print; the fairest thought
 Ever limned in painter's dream,
The rarest form e'er sculptor wrought
 By the light of beauty's gleam,
Though lovely, may not match the power
 Which our proud, art can claim—
That links the past with the present hour,
 And its breath—the voice of fame.
  Then let us sing, as we nimbly fling
   The slender letters round—
  A glorious thing is our labouring,
   Oh, where may its like be found?

Print, comrades, print; God hath ordained
 That man by his toil should live:
Then spurn the charge that we disdained
 The labour that God would give!
We envy not the sons of ease,
 Nor the lord in princely hall,
But bow before the wise decrees
 In kindness meant for all.
  Then let us sing, as we nimbly fling
   The slender letters round—
  A glorious thing is our labouring,
   Oh, where may its like be found?

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