The foes to the press, kings or despots anointed,-~
May you beat them to death with your cannon well pointed.
Huzza! for the lever, slave-fetters to sever;
The press, freedom's bulwark, for ever, huzza!
My song unrevised, Sirs, here gives me much trouble,
I find in last verse I have made a sad double;
But you pressed me to sing, and though out, I've no doubt,
You'll kindly o'erlook every "double" and "out."
When your frames become battered with age, and look
May you still have laid up a large heap at the bank;
And when to the light-house at evening you start, O!
In landlord's good books-may you LIGHT on a quarto!
Huzza! &c.
Though oft you impose, in this world without feeling,
And with hell and the devil have daily some dealing;
'Neath the stone, when in coffin you'r laid, may a column
Your fame and worth publish as long as a volume.
Huzza! &c.
And now, since we're met here to feast and to drink,
To a sentiment, sure, I've a title, I think,-
Till here for our pudding again we shall hie,
May you live on the fat of the land without pie.
Huzza! &c.
Liverpool, July, 1823.
James Scott Walker, editor of the Chester Guardian, assistant editor of the Liverpool Mercury and Kaleidoscope, proprietor and editor of the Lancashire Literary Museum, editor of the Preston Chronicle, editor of the Preston Observer, author of an Essay on the Education of the People, A Tragic Poem, an Account of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway, Tales of My Father, and other poems, besides articles in various newspapers and magazines. He is the son of the Rev. W. Walker, minister of the parish of St. Cyrus, in the county of Kincardine, by Margaret, eldest daughter of General Scott, of Langley park, near Brechin, and was born December 25th, 1792.
"Blest Invention, alone to God the praise
For gifting man this noble art to raise;
From thee what benefits do men possess?
Our Nation's Bulwark is-the BRITISH PRESS!"
Ar ten years old (as if to raise my fame)
My father placed me in a wooden frame;
In my left hand he clapt an iron stick,
On which brass rule was often heard to click.
Though I'm not skill'd in Greek or Latin lore,
Nor ancient Hebrew, used in days of yore,
With due submission I inform my betters,
That I can boast I am a man of letters.
Bred to the bar, though I ne'er studied law,
I well could copy every deed I saw ;
And though no Christian merchant, Turk, or Jew,
I've dealt in pearl, and oft in diamond too.
And, though unskill'd in aught of pastry art,
In making pie I oft have had my part.
This, too, I own, whatever my condition,
That I have often practis'd imposition.
When numerous lines and columns have appear'd
In hostile proof, I've prick'd them in the beard
With bodkin keen, as poniards were of old,
Which vile assassins oft employed for gold.
I am no traitor, but depend upon't,
I've form'd and placed French cannon in the front;
With English too, I've hit them in the nick,
And chased whole thousands with one shooting-stick.
In forming lines it oft has been my pride,
Into a town to pour a whole broadside.
Oft at the gallows have I tugg'd and sweat,
And with a mallet heavy matter beat.
A galley slave near fifty years I've been,
And at the stocks my hands were often seen;
But still, to show my history's not ill paged,
At cards and balls I've often been engag'd.
Though never rich, I yet have had my horse,
But found by doing so my case was worse;
For, when with others in the chase I've join'd,
I've met with crosses that have hurt my mind.
When author's works by me were looked o'er,
I've lock'd them up to publish them the more.
And, though no dog, this my assertion's true,
I've been a pointer and a setter to;
But not a spaniel, for I ne'er could lick?
The foot of him who dared attempt to kick.
Howe'er an author did his language dress,
In various forms I've sent it to the prses.
But hard's the fate of poor unlucky I,
My father taught me in damp sheets to lie ;
Yet, when the tympans and the platten fell,
They form'd new lines for other folks to tell.
Although neglected at my grammar-schools,
I've paid obedience to the chapel rules ;
And yet, to prove that I was not uncivil,
I always spoke in favour of the devil.
But now no more the brazen rule doth click, Nor well-adjusted line adorn the stick; No more I see the chapellonians sit To try their causes and exert their wit While the gay pitcher jovially would pass, From ass to pig, from pig again to ass ; And thus one truth most other truth surpasses, I've drank with pigs, and often fed with asses, So when astray from either sty or stall, And they on me would in their tramping call, I pledge my soul as witness of the deed, I ne'er forsook them in the time of need; Unless indeed I'd set up every space, And caused myself to have an empty case.
At present I have set up every letter,
My copy's out, and I've imposed the matter ;
And when my outer form returns to clay,
Preserve, O GOD! my inner form, I pray;
If I perchance, and there can be no doubt,
Have made a double, or have left an out,
The error's trivial, 'tis with us as common
As noisy tongue is to a scolding woman.
My case being out, and nothing to distribute,
Should some kind ass or generous pig contribute
To fill my case, in thinking I'll be proud,
And bray and grunt my gratitude aloud.
If to some wool-hole I am doom'd to go,
To end my days in misery and woe,
Where tyrants rule with cruelty replete,
Ah! dread abode-the poor man's last retreat,'
'Midst dire oppression, anguish, pain, and grief,
Without a friend to yield the least relief;
Then haste, kind Death, in pity to my age,
And clap the FINIS to my life's last page.
May heaven's great Author my foul proof revise,
Cancel the page in which my error lies,
And raise my form above the ethereal skies.
No more shall copy bad perplex my brain;
No more shall type's small face my eye-balls strain ;
No more the proof's foul page create me troubles,
By errors, transpositions, outs, and doubles;
No more to overrun shall I begin ;
No more be driving out or taking in;
The stubborn pressman's frown I now may scoff; Raised, corrected, finally worked off!
WHEN on the Greeks' and Romans' learned page,
The barb'rous Goths (the scandal of that age)
Plac'd their destroying hands, fair Science mourn'd,
And Learning was to deepest ign'rance turn'd.
Long in the darksome womb of hiding Time,
The Arts lay hid, banish'd from ev'ry clime;
But when the Medicean heroes liv'd,
The blooming Science once again reviv`d.
Tune-" Shepherd, when you saw me fly."
See the Arts erect their heads!
See the Muses tune their song !
Learning o'er each clime now spreads
Where the Goths bad triumph'd long;
Every scribe resumes his pen,
Brutes are polish'd into men,
But sage Minerva thought the pen too slow,
To make each useful Art and Science flow
Through ev'ry state, with necessary haste,
To recompense the days of darkness past,
Then she to Faust and Schoeffer did impart,
That friend to Learning's cause, the Typographic Art.
Tune-"I'll range round the shady bowers,"
Hail noble Art, by which the world,
Though long in babarism hurl'd,
Sees blooming Learning swift arise,
And Science wafted to the skies.
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