PRINTERS’ BLUNDERS;

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume III, Issue 139, 11 September 1863, Page 5 (Supplement)

PRINTERS’ BLUNDERS;

OE, REFLECTIONS UPON RECEIVING A COPV OF MV FIEST POEM PUBLISHED IN THE NEWSPAPER. Ah ! here it is. I’m famous now— An author and a poet! It really is in print! Ye gods! How proud I’d he to show it! And gentle Anna; what a thrill Will animate her breast, To read these tender lines, and know To whom they are addressed. Why, bless my soul! Here’s something strange ; What can the paper mean By talking of the “ graceful brooks, That gander o’er the green”? And here’s a I, instead of r. Which makes it “ tippling rill " We’ll seek the shad,” instead of “ shade,” And “ hell” instead of “ hill.” “ They look so’’—what!—l recollect—’fwas “sweet,” and then ’twas “kind;” And now. to think, the stupid fool, For “ bland” has printed “ blind.” Was ever such j revoking work ? (’Tis curious, by-the-bye, How anything is rendered blind, By giving it an eye). “ Hast thou no tears f”—the t ’s left out—- “ Hast thou no ears f” instead; “ X hope that thou art dear,” is put—- “ I hope that thou art dead.” Who ever saw in such a space So many blunders crammed ? " Those gentle eyes bedimm’d” is spelt “ Those gentle eyes bedamm’d.” ” The color of the rose” is ” nose,” “ Affection” is “ affliction (X wonder if the likeness holds In fact as well as fiction ?) " Thou art a friend”—the r is gone; Who ever would have deemed That such a trilling thing would change “ A friend” into “ a fiend ?” " Thou art the same” is rendered •• lame,” It really is too bad; And here, because an i is out, My “ lovely maid” is " mad.” They drove her blind by poking in An eye—a process new; And now they’ve gouged it out again. And made her crazy too. “ Where are the Muses fled, that thou Should’st live so long unsung?” Thus read ray versionhere it is—- “ Should’st live so long unhung 1” ” The fate of woman’s love is thine," And h commences fate; How small a circumstance will turn A woman’s love to hate! X‘ll read no'more! What shall Ido ? I’ll never dare to send it; The paper’s scattered far and wide, ’Tis now too late to mend it. 0 Fame, thou cheat of human bliss t Why did I ever write ? 1 wish my poem had been burnt Before it saw the light. Let’s stop and recapitulate: I’ve damned her eyes'that’s plain v I’ve told her she’s a lunatic. And blind, and deaf, and lame. Was ever there such horrid hash. In poetry or prose ? £ve said she was a fiend, and praised The color of her nose, I wish .1 had that printer here About one half a minute, I’d bang him to his heart’s content. And with an h begin it. I’d Jam his body, eyes, and bones. And spell it with ad; And send him to that hill of his, Which he spells with an e. —Otago Witness.