THE PRESS.
Air - Unknown...

Let monarchs revel while they may,
And drain their goblets bright;
No heart's so free, or gay as we,
On this our festal night:
We need no regal pageant here,
No banners wreathed with fame;
For brighter far, our trophies are,
Our history and name!

Each Printer lives himself a king,
A monarch in his might,
And throne and crown must topple down,
When he is in the right.
And o'er the world his banner waves,
Where freedom's sung or told,
The printed page—the truths of age,
And glorious songs of old!

High honor to the noble art!
By far the brightest gem
That ever threw its lustrous hue
From freedom's diadem !
E'en now it gleams the guiding star,
Far distant o'er the wave,
Where millions fight, to gain the right
Of freedom, or a grave!

Then, brothers, let our daily toil
Be sung in festal strains,
'While bards shall sing or weapons ring
On earth's wide battle plains;
Or while one tyrant's throne is left
For truth to trample down,
Our mystic art will bear its part
Of glory and renown!

Sung at the Printers' Festival, in the city of Boston, April 14., 1848.