A Printer-Poet.

The literature of the printers' craft contains an anthology of wit, humor, and fancy, that would fill a goodly volume. Most of these happy hits and quaint conceits are of unknown authorship —they sparkle in type-specimen books; they first see the light in the back page of a technical paper; or quietly composed (in a double sense) by a literary comp, they are dropped into the miscellaneous column of a country weekly, and pass into general currency. To our valued correspondent in Wellington we are indebted for copies of several clever pieces by a clever New Zealand printer-poet—Mr John Ludford. Mr Ludford, who is now about fifty years of age, has « in his time played many parts, » —having been in turn compositor, reader, editor, miner, newspaper proprietor, and farmer. He was born near Birmingham, where he passed his boyhood, and in due time was put to case to learn the mysteries of the Black Art. Cupid (always in league with the Muses) seems to have first inspired his verse, judging from the earliest effort he has preserved—a graceful little piece entitled « I cannot Sing the Old Songs, » bearing date 19th May, 1869. Since then, he has written many pieces, in many veins, and under various signatures—usually « J.L., » but his humorous pieces have been variously signed « Petto, » « Screw-jack, » « Robin Redknows, » « Mary Ann Mumbles, » « Jean Drofdul, » &c. In 1870 he was a contributor to the poetic column of a Dunedin weekly; late in the '70's he celebrated in verse a boat-race which took place at Lyttelton between crews representing the Times and the Press offices, and after this his verse appeared very often in the Canterbury Times. He has written many prologues for the Times Sick Fund entertainments and other charitable affairs. Though he excels in parody and the lighter class of versification, he can do good work of a higher order, as evidenced by such pieces as « The Shadow of the Cross, » « Zealandia's Nativity, » and the memorial verses to « Garibaldi. » From the pieces sent us by our correspondent, we quote two—not as the best or most characteristic; but because, being of a personal kind, they are fittingly associated with these brief notes regarding the author. The first—an apology to the Father of the Lyttelton Times chapel for non-attendance at a quarterly meeting —is interesting as containing the writer's modest self-estimate:—

An Apology.
I much regret to have to write,
Your kind indulgence to invite
For absence from your midst to-night,
Which nobody can deny.

I wish it could be otherwise,
But that, in truth, beyond me lies,
For which I hear apologise,
Which nobody can deny.

I therefore thought 'twould be no crime
To woo the Muses for a time,
And tender my excuse in rhyme,
Which nobody can deny.

But critics of a certain school
May say « The thing's against all rule, »
This senseless « piping » of a fool,
Which I really must deny.

For whether rhyme or prose be used,
If courtesy be not abused,
It should not, therefore, be refused,
Which nobody can deny.

And though my « piping, » rudely dressed,
May not withstand a classic test,
I can't « pipe » better than my best,
Which nobody can deny.

For I, unlike the satyr Pan,
Am moulded on the human plan,
I'm but a poor bald-headed man,
Which nobody can deny.

At any rate, this fact endures—
Your office my respect ensures,
And I remain sincerely yours—
Which nobody can deny.

Our other example—a parody on a well-known song in the Pirates of Penzance, is an example of Mr Ludford's readiness. It was written during the dinner-hour, for the farewell re-union of the piece-room companionship, Government Printing Office, at the end of the Session of 1885. It was sung by Mr F. C. Millar, of Dunedin, to the toast of « Our Overseer » —Mr G. Gamble, the « boss » referred to, who quickly wins the respect of all who happen to be « on their lines » during session in his room.

A Printer's Lot.
When a printer's not engaged in composition,
Or in putting in long primer or brevier,
So heavy are the cares of his position,
That he hasn't even time to take a beer;
And when absent from his toil his fancy lingers
Among the solid « takes » that he has done,
And he murmurs, as he gazes on his fingers,
« A printer's lot is not a happy one. »

Chorus.
When a « snatching » sort of duty's to be done
The printer's lot is not a happy one.

Now, amongst the many cares of his employment
Is the scratching of the cruel reader's pen,
Which doesn't add a bit to his enjoyment,
But makes him long to kick his fellow-men.
Yet notwithstanding all his tribulation
He smiles because his heart is always light;
And 'spite of all his trouble and vexation,
You never find a printer getting tight!!!

In the changes of a printer's avocation
We have met with overseers just a few,
And while some we've found deserving approbation,
There were some all bounce and cock-a-doodle-doo.
From our present boss we're very loth to sever,
For he our deep and true respect has won;
And we feel that we may travel on for ever
Before we meet with such another one.

Then, come, let us give each other friendly greeting,
Forgetting all the troubles of the past:
For the end may soon arrive, as time is fleeting,
But let us part the best of friends at last.
And let us through all future time remember
This night when all our care is turned to fun;
And recollect the date—the 12th September—
When we found our lot was quite a happy one.

Mr Ludford's versification is correct and easy—and, moreover, possesses one quality—the rarest of all in amateur poetry—that every line tells. Many writers belauded as « poets » commit the fundamental error of thrusting in a superflous line of weak expletives to fill out a stanza, when the sense is complete in three. This, and the kindred artifice of dragging in an utterly foreign sentiment merely to supply a rhyme—are the besetting vices of minor poets, and specially of hymn-writers. We have not seen any of Mr Ludford's more serious pieces; but we feel assured that he is capable of high-class work. We hope that many future issues of Typo may be brightened by his original and clever compositions.