Sacred to the memory of
Pressman-printer, in Edinburgh
Who died Oct 3, 1832.
Aged 72 years.
All my days are loosed;
My cap is thrown off; my head is worn out;
My box is broken;
My spindle and bar have lost their power;
My till is laid aside;
Both legs of my crane are turned out of their path;
My platen can make no impression;
My winter hath no spring;
My rounce will neither roll out nor in;
Stone, coffin, and carriage have all failed;
The hinges of my tympan and frisket are immovable;
My long and short ribs are rusted;
My cheeks are much worm-eaten and mouldering away;
My press is totally down;
The volume of my life is finished;
Not without many errors;
Most of them have arisen from bad composition, and
are to be attributed more to the chase than the press;
There are also a great number of my own;
Misses, scuffs, blotches, blurs, and bad register;
But the true and faithful superintendent has under-
taken to correct the whole.
When the machine is again set up
incapable of decay,
A new and perfect edition of my life will appear,
Elegantly bound for duration, and every way fitted
for the grand Library of the Great Author.