I'in sitting by my desk, Gcorgc; Before me, on the rtoor, There lies a worn-out font of type, Full twenty thousand score; And miiny months have passed, George, Snice lliey were bright and tiew, And muny are the tales they've told- The false, the slrange, the truc. What tales of horror they have told, Of tempest and of wreek ; Of murdur in the midnight Imur ; Of war ful! many a 'speek !' Of ships that, lost away at sea - Went down before the blust, Of stifled cries of agony, As life's last moments passed. Of earthquakes and of suicides, Of failing crops of cotton. Of bank defaulters, broken banks, And banking systerns rotten, And boilers bursting, sU-atnboats snaggcd, Of riots, duels fought, Of robbers with their prey escnpcd ; Of thieves their booty caugln. Of nood, and fire, and accident, Those worn-out types have told; And how the pestilence has swept The youthful and the old ; Of raarriages, of births and death.s, Of things to picase or vex us ; Of one man's jumping overboard, Another gone to Fcxas. They've told us how swect sumnier days Have faded from uuÍMtw; How autumn's chilli-ng winds have swept The leaf-crowned forests through; How winter's snow haüi come and gone Dark región of storm and strifc - And how the smiling spring halh warmed The palo ílowers back to Ufe, l cant pretend to mention half My inky friends have told, Since, shining bright and beautiful They issued from the mould- How unto some they joy have brought, To others grief and tears; Yet faithful the record kept Of fast receding years.