Who, like the wretch whose title he has found,
Takes all the maledictions floating round?
Who quaffs, with surly, mock-respectful stare,
The surplus blueness of the office air?
Who all our secrets in a week doth know;
Whose brain is active as his feet are slow?
Who pleads from every negligence or trick,
With tongue as agile as his hands are thick?
Who creeps the editor's seclusion near,
And yells for "copy!" in his weakest ear?