Classic Poem

Praise be, praise be, to printers all!
Old Sixtus on his throne
Would damn my soul to Hell with a Bull—
And now he has damned his own!

‘I 'll have the Vulgate set,’ said he,
‘In type beyond reproof;
Without a wicked error—made
Though it be by the Devil's hoof!

‘It shall surpass in dot and jot
All ink has ever etched,
For every holy sheet of it
Shall 'fore my eyes be fetched.

‘And, in a preface black and clear,
I 'll excommunicate
All who shall dare to change the text
But a tittle, by God's hate!’

So straight he put his toads to it,
His Gregory, Pius, Paul,
And not with a pint of Asti let
Them wet their wits withal!

Each new white sheet he conned himself
With care ‘infallible.’
Then bound them up—to find them foul
With errors, frowsy full!

And all the world of heretics
Is tittering now—from Thun
To Tiber, from the Thames to where
The Turk swears by Haroun!

‘Papal Infallibility has damned
The Pope himself,’ they gloat,
‘For he must paste his errors over
And be his own scapegoat!’

Old Sixtus Fifth, who from his throne
Would damn my soul to Hell,
Shall lick the Devil's presses there
And print blasphemies well!