Oft in the stilly midnight, visions of boyhood rise. Scenes of the past restoring peace to my weary eyes. Mother and home and comrades, laughter and mirth and song Drift to me on the moonbeams, silently float along.
I was a printer's devil, god of the realms of gloom. Knight of the hand-press roller, wielder of brush and broom. Keeper of smelly paste-pot, slave to the proofpress chained, Guardian saint of the hell-box, all that its maw contained.
Type three-em quad and leader, reglet and space dash, Outcast, rejected, broken, battered and gone to smash, Yet mid the pi and welter often I had the grace To pick out a type unbroken and bear it back to its case.
Worn am I now and battered, ground in the world's harsh mill— Ah, will that One discover something of value still, Something that makes me worthy to have in His plan a place— Pick me out of the hell-box, put me back in the case? —George H. Free