He hath sold his heart to the old Black Art

We call the daily Press.

Who once hath dealt in the widest game

That all of a man can play,

No later love, no larger fame

Will lure him long away.

As the war-horse smelleth the battle afar,

The entered Soul, no less,

He saith: 'Ha! Ha!' where the trumpets are

And the thunders of the Press.