The weekly Butte record., 1862-05-03
THE COUNTRY PRINTER.
By PHILIP FRESEAU. cIRcA, 1876.

Beside stream that never yet ran dry,
There stands town, not high advanced in fame
Tho few its buildings raised to please the eye,
Still this proud title il may fairly claim;
A tavern Gts first requisite) Is there,
A mill, blaeksmith's shop, place of prayer.
Nay, more-a little market house is seen,
And iron hooks where beef was never hung,
Nor pork, nor bacon, poultry fat or lean
Pigs head, or sausage link, or buIlock's tongue:
Look when you will you see the vacant bench.
No butcher seated there. no country wench.
Great aims were his who first contriv'd this town;
market he would have-but humbled now,
Signing. We see its fabric mould'ring down,
That only serves, at night, to pen the COW;
And hence, BY way of jest, it may be said
That beef is there, tho never beef that's dead.
Abreast the inn-a tree before the door,
Printing Office lifts its humble head.
Where busy TYPE old journals doth explore
For news that is thro' all the village read.
Who year from year $50 cruel is his lot)
Is author, pressman, devil-and what not.
Fame says, he is an old and curious wight,
Fond to distraction Of his native place;
In sense not very dull nor very bright,
Yet shows some marks of humor in his face:
One who can pen an aneedote complete,
Or pla que the parson with the mackled sheet
Three times week by nimble geldings drawn,
stage arrives; but scarcely deigns to stop,
Unless the driver, far in liquor gone, (shop:
Has made some business for the blacksmith 5
Then comes this printers harvest-time of news,
Welcome alike from Christians Turks, or Jews
Each passenger he eyes with curious glance,
And, if his phiz be mark'd of courteous kind
To conversation. straight, he makes advance.
Hoping. from thence, some paragraph to find,
Some odd adventure, something new and rare,
To set the town gape and make it stare.
All is not truth t'tis said) that travellers tell
So much the better for this man of news:
For hence the country round, who know him well
Will, if he print some lies, his lies excuse:
Earthquakes and battles, shipwrecks, ,myrads slain,
If false or true alike to him are gain.
But if this motley tribe say nothing new,
Then many lazy, longing look is cast,
To watch the weary postboy travelling through,
On horses rump his budget buckled fast
With letters, safe in leathern prison pent,
And wet, from press, full many packet sent.
Not Argus; with his fifty pair of eyes,
Look'd sharper for his prey than honest TYPE
Explores each package of allurng size,
Prepared to seize them with a nimbe grpe,
Did not the postboy watch his goods. and swear
That village TYPE shall only have his share.
Ask you what matter fills his various page?
\ mere farago t is of mingled things;
What er is done madam Terra stage,
He 20 the knowledge of his townsmen brings;
One while. he tells of monarchs run away:
And now, Of witches down'd in Bu7zard's bay
Some miracles he makes, and some he steals:
Half natures works giants In his eyes;
Much, very much, in wonderment be deals
New Hampshire apples grown to pumpkin size,
Pumpkins almost as large as country inns.
And ladies, bearing each,-three lovely twins
He, births and deaths, with cold indifference vicws:
paragraph from him is all they claim:
And here the rural Squire amongst the news.
Sees the fair record of some lordling's fame;
All that was good infinitely brought to light.
All that was iu,-conceal'd from vulgar sight.
III.