"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.
