A CANTATA.

WRITTEN BY MR. DODD.

Recitative.

When on the Greeks and Romans learned page,
The barb'rous Goths (the scandal of that age)
Plac'd their destroying hands, fair Science mourn'd,
And Learning was to deepest ign'rance turn'd.
Long in the darksome womb of hiding Time,
The Arts lay hid, banish'd from ev'ry clime;
But when the Medician herbes liv'd,
The blooming Science once again reviv'd.

Air.

Tune.---Shepherd when you saw me fly.
See the Arts erect their heads!
See the Muses tune their song!
Learning o'er each clime now spreads
Where the Goths had triumph'd long;
Every scribe resumes his pen,
Brutes are polish'd into men.

Recitative.

But sage Minerva thought the pen too slow,
To make each useful Art and Science flow
Through ev'ry state, with necessary baste,
To recompense the days of darkness past,
Then she to Faust and Schaeffer did impart,

That friend to Learning's cause, the Typographic Art.

Air.

Tune.---I'll range round the shady Bowers.
Hail noble Art, by which the world,
Though long in barbarism hurl'd,
Sees blooming Learning swift arise,
And Science wafted to the skies.

Aided by thee, the printed page,
Conveys instruction to each age;
When in one hour more sheets appear,
Than Scribes could copy in a year.

Air.

Tune.---Roast beef of Old England.

Then all who profess here that heaven-taught Art,
And all who have Learning and Science at heart,
Come join in my ditty, and each bear a part,

To sing in the praise of good Printing,

And to sing in that noble Art's praise.

Though ev'ry Composer a Galley must have,
Yet think not by that a Composer's a slave,
For freedom he labours, and freedom will have,
To sing in the praise of good Printing,

And to sing in that noble Art's praise.

Though he daily Imposes, 'tis not to do wrong,
And, like Nimrod, he follows a Chace all day long,
And he loves a good Slice, or he's much in the wrong,
To sing in the praise of good Printing,

And to sing in that noble Art's praise.

Though Correction he needs, all mankind does the same,
If he Quadrats his matter, he is not to blame,
For to Justification he lays a strong claim,

Then sing in the praise of good Printing,
And sing in that noble Art's praise.

To complete this great Art, the Pressmen all come,
And each handles his Balls, his Frisket, and Drum,
And to make good impression the Plattin pulls home,
While he sings to the praise of good Printing,
And sings in that noble Art's praise.

But, as the old proverb relates very clear,

We're the furthest from good when the church we are near,
So in each Printer's Chapel do Devils appear;

Who roar in the praise of good Printing,
And sing in that noble Art's praise.

Then let us regard, as the aider of Art,

Each one who in Printing doth bear the least part,
And whoe'er would oppress it must have a vile heart,
Then sing in the praise of good Printing,

And sing in that noble Art's praise.

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