THE SLAVE OF THE PEN.
I.
With fingers inky and cold,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A scribbler sat through the dreary night,
Spinning "Copy," at morn to be read.
Scratch! scratch! scratch!
In a gas-lighted steamy den,
And still, in a voice of dolorous pitch,
He sang the song of the pen.
II.
"Scratch! scratch! scratch!
While engines are shaking the roof;
Scratch! scratch! scratch!
Till the "Devil" appears with a proof.
And it's oh! to be a slave
Of the pen, whether steel or quill,
Is as bad as being a worthless knave
Doing his month at the 'mill.'
III.
"Scratch! scratch! scratch!
Is it farce or tragedy grim,
Making up the requisite batch,
With fact, and fancy, and whim?
It fritters away my life,
In the flow of this inky stream.
And over the copy I fall asleep,
And punctuate in a dream."
* * * *
Oh! husband with slippered feet;
Oh! wife in morning gown:
Coming down to breakfast, pleased to read
The latest news of the town—
Think of the dismal scratch
Of these midnight slaves of the pen.
Forgive them a caustic, or feeble phrase,
And remember they are but men.
Funny Folks, January 9th, 1875.