The Soldier may forget his sword,
  The Sailorman the sea,
The Mason may forget the Word
  And the Priest his litany:
The maid may forget both jewel and gem,
  And the bride her wedding-dress—
But the Jew shall forget Jerusalem
  Ere we forget the Press!


Who once hath stood through the loaded hour
  Ere, roaring like the gale,
The Harrild and the Hoe devour
  Their league-long paper bale,
And has lit his pipe in the morning calm
  That follows the midnight stress—
He hath sold his heart to the old Black Art
  We call the daily Press.


Who once hath dealt in the widest game
  That all of a man can play,
No later love, no larger fame
  Will lure him long away.