THE OLD PRINTER
By BP Shillaber

I see him at his case,
With his anxious cheerless face,
Worn and brown;
And the types’ unceasing click,
As they drop within his stick,
Seems of Life’s old clock the tick,
Running down.

I’ve known him many a year,
That old Type, bent and queer, --
Boy and man; --
Time was when step elate
Distinguished his gait,
And his form was tall and straight,
We now scan.

I’ve marked him, day by day,
As he passed along the way
To his toil;
He’s labored might and main,
A living scant to gain,
And some interest small attain
In the soil.

And hope was high at first,
And the golden sheet he nursed,
Till he found
That hope was but a glare
In a cold and frosty air,
And the promise, pictured fair,
Barren ground.

He n’er was reckoned bad,
But I’ve seen him smile right glad
At "leaded" woes,
While a dark and lowering frown
Would spread his features round,
Where virtue’s praise did sound,
If‘t were "close."

Long years he’s labored on,
And the rosy hues are gone
From his sky;
For others are his hours,
For others are his powers, --
His days, uncheered by flowers,
Flitting by.

You may see him, night by night,
By the lamp’s dull dreamy light,
Standing there;
With cobweb curtains spread
In festoons o’er his head,
That sooty showers shed
In his hair.

And when the waning moon
Proclaims of night the noon,
If you roam,
You may see him, weak and frail,
As his weary steps do fail,
In motion like the snail,
Wending home.

His form by years is bent,
To his hair a tinge is lent
Sadly gray;
And his teeth have long decayed,
And his eyes their trust betrayed, --
Great havoc Time has made
With his clay

But soon with come the day
When his form will pass away
From our view,
And the spot shall know no more
The sorrows that he bore,
Or the disappointments sore
That he knew..

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