THE SONG OF THE PEN.
WITH a weary, swimming brain,
With a throbbing aching head,
Sat a newspaper hack in his garret lone,
Driving a goose-quill for bread.
A well-smoked briar was in his hand,
He'd filled it again and again,
And between the whiffs, in a quavering voice,
He sang this "Song of the Pen."
Write! write! write!
Though my head is ready to split;
Write! write! write!
Though I fall asleep as I sit.
Write! write! write!
When the summer sun is high!
Write! write! write!
When the stars light up the sky.
Write! write! write!
For my pen must never tire;
First I've a railway smash to do,
And then the report of a fire.
I must put in a word of praise for those
Who rendered efficient aid;
And, if time enough, I must give a puff,
To the chief of the Fire Brigade.
Write! write! write!
I'd need be a writing machine;
For unlike the workers on Once a Week,
I've no Leisure Hour between,
But it's write! write! write!
Though my inkstand is nearly dry,
Like a government office, I must contract
With MORRELL for a fresh supply.
Now I must haste to the gallows tree,
To see them strangle a sinner;
And write a report the saints may read,
As they take their breakfast or dinner.
Then concoct a puff for some wonderful pill,
Or marvellous sarsaparilla;
And hurry away to hear PUNSHON preach,
Or SPURGEON on the gorilla.
(Three verses omitted.)
With a weary, swimming brain,
With a throbbing, aching head,
Sat a newspaper hack in his garret lone,
Driving a goose-quill for bread.
Write! write! write!
They're asking for "copy" again;
While his goose-quill over the foolscap flew,
He thought of the troubles each author knew,
And sang this "Song of the Pen."
ANONYMOUS.