THE PRESS

THE PRESS '■MM ‘ RUDYARD KIPLING * The Soldier may forget )iis Sword, / The Sailorman the Sea, The Mason may forget the Word And the Priest his Li'tany: 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! Who once hath stood through the loaded hour, Ere, roaring like the gale, The Harrild and the Hoe deyour Their lehgue-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. : *, Who once hath dealt in the wildest game ; That all of a man can play, No later love, no larger fame ~ U Will lure him long away. As the war-horse smelleth the battle afar, The entered Soul, no less, He saith: “Ha! Ha!” where the trumpets are And the thunders of the Press ! Canst thou number the days that we fulfil, Or the Times that we bring forth? " Canstthousend the lightnings to dp 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! 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. Remember the battle and stand aside While Thrones and Powers confess - That King over all the children of pride ■ Is the Press... the Press... the Press ...