But love the more its new-born dews;
And I think of the curl of an editor’s nose,
As he scans the scraps of rhyme and prose,
That come to his hand from wits and blues,
Ambitious of places within the News.
The devil was black, ’twas early morn,
And the pressmen sweat, when the News was born;
A proof had been in the editor’s gripe,
And there wasn’t a single misplaced type.
Each pig was set, the galleys were high,