Untitled
What happed to thicks; the mids and the thins,
The non-pareils, the picas; the space in between.
Where is the foolscap, the quarto, demy?
Confined to the archives of a time that passed by.
Where are the casters, setting sticks and comps,
The cases of type and hot metal pots?
Where is Will Caxton, Gutenberg and co.?
Confined to an era that passed long ago.
What's in the future, which changes so fast,
Unlike our yesterdays when things had to last.
Technology is changing; it has to be said.
And the craftsmen of old? They are now dead.
John D. Rayner, 2004
Joyce & Co, Printer's Supplies
B. Joyce's house of Business In Stanhope street, you'll find,
Whenever you do want some goods Or things of Printing kind.
To him we would invite you, Printers, both large and small,
There's everything that you would need, If you would only call.
He cuts the Blocks for Posting Bills, Both ground and shaded too,
In every style and every size, And colors not a few.
There's not a sort of wood letter, But what he undertakes,
He strives his customers to please, In everything he makes.
He manufactures cases, Both music, common, best.
The doubles and the trebles, You'll find them good by test.
His racks and frames, his reglet, quoins, Are made of best of wood.
His mallets, planers, sidesticks too. If tried are very good.
His stocks are large and numerous, Of chases wrought and cast,
And galleys too of every size, Of zinc and wood and brass.
Both leads and quadrats he has got, Brass rule in any length,
And all his iron surfaces, Unequalled are for strength.
His blankets, parchments, shooting sticks, His bodkins for the trade,
His inks in every colour good, The best that can be made.
His presses are of first class make, All kinds of metal type,
Peels, slices, and composing sticks, And rollers, if you like.
There's many more things in his trade That I've not written here
But which I know that you will find, When you do call in here.
Benjamin Joyce, circa 1836
Submitted by Peter Blissett of Joyce & Co
A Printer's Greetings
Ye Christen men, take herte of grace,
Ne sette your minds in Lower Case:
Bihold how God at Man's sore Nede
Imprints Himselfe for alle to read
In smallest Type, so fair and swete
There's noght to adde ne yet delete.
Now make we all peticioun
That in our Compositioun
We follow Copye as we can,
Humblie Displaying God-in-man:
So shal our lytel Lorde
Be evermore adored
Josephine Coning, Christmas 1917
Submitted by William Sessions of The Ebor Press
Untitled
Roses are red, violets are blue
That's what the marketing girl doing the press pass thinks too!
Her printing knowledge just has to be seen
She keeps asking the printers to bring up the green
The printers are testy, They're biting their tongues
We all know this job is going wrong
"It's 4 colour process luv " the printers reply
CYMK they say with a sigh!
CYMK -what colours are they ???
What??? - now she's asking to bring up the grey ????
Its three hours now she's been on the press
Call a Director - this is a mess!
The sun is now setting at the end of the day,
More time on this press Luv! You'll have to pay!
They pull out a pass sheet from the bottom of the pile,
That's perfect she says - and signs it off with a smile!
The customers great, she's happy with that!
She pulls out her glasses - she's blind as a bat!
The moral of the story, if ever there is one
Don't let customers press pass - 'cause the profit is gone!'
Nick Turner, 2004
An Old Comp
Hushed is the type-click -- his stick and worn rule
Repose on his case -- his apron and stool,
His pipe and tobacco are under the frame,
Just where he left them when quitting time came,
When in death's long slumber he closed his tired eyes,
And the proofs of his life-work went up for revise,
From boyhood, through manhood, to feeble old age,
His life-work is finished, he's set the last page.
How varied the "takes" he's been called to compose,
The "fat" and the "lean" mingling e'en to its close!
How many have passed him in life's rapid race,
Whilst marshalling his "thousands" in line at the case.
Whom nature marks willing men oft make a slave,
Hope, talent, and poverty oft fill the grave,
Ambition, misfortune, we know not how oft
On bright-pinioned hope "Old Comp" soared a aloft,
When some demon unseen dashed down from on high
Hope, Fortune, and "Comp" in commingling "pi"!
How oft he has laboured to give other men
Political station, by press-power and pen,
Revised the crude speech, furnished both brains and grammar
And got for reward -- "The sherrif and the hammer"!
If you'd learn much of vanity, humbug and pomp,
And can't be a Solomon -- be an "Old Comp."
David Marshall Painter, unknown
Submitted by Philip Painter
Blame It All On Gutenberg
You can blame a chap named Gutenberg
A German, shrewd, but skint
Who caused a revolution
In this trade we now call "Print";
'Cause back in 1436
The guy was so damned clever
He said: "I'll build a printing press
It'll solve our needs forever.
I'll be printing books and parchments
Scrolls and A4 leaves
And I might do Henry's invites
When he marries Ann of Cleeves."
But alas, for his endeavour
The press lacked umph and speed
His staff had such a back-log
They couldn't meet the public's need.
And it stayed that way for centuries
No inventions taking place
Not even a Gill or a Didot
Could inspire a change of pace;
Then, in 1987
In a bid to make things faster
They designed a Monotype machine
And christened it: "The Caster".
Then finally, in the Seventies
We get the gear we need
With the birth of new technology
We'll soon be up to speed
"Sticks" were made redundant
"Frames" rotted and decayed
And photo-composition
Was the future of the trade.
But still, it wasn't fast enough
Keyboard Ops looked strained
Mistakes were being overlooked
Customers complained;
So now we've got Mac System 10
The kit looks cool and slicker
But the job's still wanted yesterday
So it isn't that much quicker.
Peter Clark, 2004
