The Soldier may forget his Sword, |
The Sailorman the Sea, |
The Mason may forget the Word |
And the Priest his Litany. |
The Maid may forget both jewel and gem, |
And the Bride her wedding-dress - |
But the Jew shall forget Jerusalem |
Ere we forget the Press! |
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Who once hath stood through the loaded hour |
Ere, roaring like the gale, |
The Harrild and the Hoe devour |
Their league-long paper-bale, |
And has lit his pipe in the morning calm |
That follows the midnight stress - |
He hath sold his heart to the old Black Art |
We call the daily Press. |
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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 snuffeth the battle afar, |
The entered Soul, no less, |
He saith: «На! Ha!» where the trumpets are |
And the thunders of the Press! |
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Canst thou number the days that we fulfil, |
Or the Times that we bring forth? |
Canst thou send the lightnings to do thy will, |
And cause them reign on earth? |
Hast thou given a peacock goodly wings, |
To please his foolishness? |
Sit down at the heart of men and things, |
Companion of the Press! |
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The Pope may launch his Interdict, |
The Union its decree, |
But the bubble is blown and the bubble is pricked |
By Us and such as We. |
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While Thrones and Powers confess |
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Is the Press - the Press - the Press! |