THE BOOKSELLERS' BANQUET
Grave vendors of volumes, best friends of the Nine,
Give ear to my song as to charm you I try;
Other bards may in vain look for audience like mine,
For the muses they chant, for the booksellers I.
Their notes I have drawn, so 'tis nothing but fair
That my notes should be drawn, if they please, at a beck;
Undaunted I warble—I truly declare
My song is most valued when met by a cheque.
The work we've just finished went off very well;
It was set out with plates, such as Finden, or Heath,
If even their professional feelings rebel,
Must praise on account (not in spite) of their teeth.
Though by Fraser cut up, and by Murray reviewed,
Lovegrove's articles all fit insertion have found.
We have cleared off our boards, but as business is good,
We keep wetted for use, and for pleasure unbound.
But here not for pleasure alone are we stored
Like holiday tomes in our gilding so bright;
Some care 'tis our duty and wish to afford
In the moment of need to a less lucky wight,
Whose title is lost, and whose covers are torn,
When the moth has gnawed through, dust or cobwebs surround,
And to lift on the shelf our poor brother forlorn,
As a much damaged old folio treasured by Lowndes.
Though his back stock of life may perchance weigh him down,
By our aid may the old heavy pressure be moved,
And new-titled we start him again on the town,
As a second edition revised and improved.
And for dealings like this a commission will find,
And that of a date that the primest is given,
The commission is—Strive to do good to mankind,
And the place of its dates is no other than Heaven.
I won't keep the press waiting—my copy is gone,
Having finished a lay which Bob Fisher, perhaps,
May out of the head of old Caxton call one,
If not of his Drawing, yet Dining-room Scraps;
But as we all still think of Tom Talfourd's bill,
After sixty years' date, I respectfully beg,
As a knight of the quill, here to offer for nil,
My right in this song as a present to Tegg.
W. Maginn.