|
|
||
|
A Ballade of Professional Pride |
||
|
|
||
|
Not mine the glory. From the narrow tomb Call the strong voices of dead men that plied Their starveling trade along the Street of Doom, And on its heedless walls were crucified; Yet grasped a little laughter ere they died, Drowned deep in dole and debt and printer's ink, And with proud note above their torment cried : " It was in Fleet Street that I learnt to drink ! " |
||
|
|
||
|
The strong have lived. Alas! through Eden's bloom I watch the cocoa-coloured Serpent glide. The mighty drinkers of old time make room For prigs in whom the very soul has dried. Forget them ! For us two the world is wide. Here's to our comrades ! To the boys that clink The glass from Asiago to Coxsyde !— It was in Fleet Street that I learnt to drink.
Envoi
(To a newspaper proprietor) Prince, you have taken bribes, blackmailed and lied ; Your horrid vices to the Heavens stink. Yet by this thing our craft is justified— It was in Fleet Street that I learnt to drink. |
||
|
|
||
|
173 |
||
|
|
||