THE ANCIENT PRINTERMAN

O Printerman of sallow face,

And look of absent guile,

Is it the‘ copy’ on your‘ case’

That causes you to smile?

Or is it some old treasure scrap

You call from Memory's file?

“I fain would guess its mystery —

For often I can trace

A fellow dreamer's history

Whene'er it haunts the face;

Your fancy's running riot

In a retrospective race!

“Ah, Printerman, you're straying

Afar from‘ stick’ and type —

Your heart has‘ gone a-maying,’

And you taste old kisses, ripe

Again on lips that pucker

At your old asthmatic pipe!

“You are dreaming of old pleasures

That have faded from your view;

And the music-burdened measures

Of the laughs you listen to

Are now but angel-echoes —

O, have I spoken true?”

The ancient Printer hinted

With a motion full of grace

To where the words were printed

On a card above his “case,” —

“‘ I am deaf and dumb!” I left him

With a smile upon his face.