BIBLIOGRAPHY. _Blades o' Blue Grass_, by Fannie P. Dickey (Louisville, 1892); _Poetry of American Wit and Humor_, by R. L. Paget (Boston, 1899).
I am lying at rest in the sanctum to-night,-- The place is deserted and still,-- To my right lie exchanges and manuscripts white, To my left are the ink and the quill-- Yes, the quill, for my master's old-fashioned and quaint, And refuses to write with a pen; He insists that old Franklin, the editor saint, Used a quill, and he'll imitate Ben.
I love the old fellow--together for years We have managed the _Farmer's Gazette_, And although I am old, I'm his favorite shears And can crowd the compositors yet. But my duties are rather too heavy, I think, And I oftentimes envy the quill As it lazily leans with its nib in the ink While I'm slashing away with a will.
But when I was new,--I remember it well, Though a score of long years have gone by,-- The heaviest share of the editing fell On the quill, and I think with a sigh Of the days when I'd scissor an extract or two From a neighboring editor's leader, Then laugh in my sleeve at the quill as it flew In behalf of the general reader.
I am being paid off for my merriment then, For my master is wrinkled and gray, And seldom lays hold on his primitive pen Except when he wishes to say: "We are needing some money to run this machine, And subscribers will please to remit;" Or, "That last load of wood that Jones brought us was green, And so knotty it couldn't be split."
He is nervous and deaf and is getting quite blind (Though he hates to acknowledge the latter), And I'm sorry to say it's a puzzle to find Head or tale to the most of his matter. The compositors plague him whenever they see The result of a luckless endeavor, But the darling old rascal just lays it to me, And I make no remonstrance whatever.
Yes, I shoulder the blame--very little I care For the jolly compositor's jest, For I think of a head with the silvery hair That will soon, very soon be at rest. He has labored full long for the true and the good 'Mid the manifold troubles that irk us-- His only emolument raiment and food, And--a pass, now and then, to the circus.
Heigho! from the past comes a memory bright Of a lass with the freshness of clover Who used me to clip from her tresses one night A memorial lock for her lover. That dear little lock is still glossy and brown, But the lass is much older and fatter, And the youth--he's an editor here in the town-- I'm employed on the staff of the latter.