“Pick and click goes the type in the stick. . .”

Originally anonymous

A poem in praise of printing was published in 1887.

This in itself was not unusual. Printing trade journals, of the time, carried lots of poems written about printing by the printers themselves. Poetry was commonly found in most publications of the late nineteenth century and a popular source of recreation was to rhyme a line or two. Walt Whitman, the most famous printer-poet, wrote of lofty ideals and American scenes. Most of the less famous wrote of everyday work woes, humor, and the girl typesetter at the next case. A surprising number wrote of their pride in the printing craft with a respect of the profession that bordered on awe.

The 1887 poem was “The Song of the Printer,” written by an anonymous author. The first line, “Pick and click goes the type in the stick . . .” became the best-remembered line of all printing poems. The rhyme and beat painted an audible picture of a typesetter assembling type one lead letter at a time. The poem concluded with rousing praise for the power of the press. “O, where is the man with such simple tools can govern the world as I?”

Eight years later another poem was written using the same opening line. “A Printer’s Lament” went on to paint a more cynical picture. "Pick and click goes the type in the stick will soon be a song of the past . . .”

Automated linecasting and typesetting machines were beginning to be used. The introduction of the Linotype and Monotype replaced the need for the methodical hand picking of letters. It was a revolution with no less an impact than the digital revolution.

Displaced and threatened workers do not write poems in praise of new technology. A swipe is made at the new, less-skilled machine operators. “For many a printer who runs a machine has no need of brains at all.” The bleak picture is painted so that there is no future for hand setting of type. “For the poor old ‘print’ there'll soon be no place but the Childs and Drexel asylum,” the nineteenth century rest home for aged and infirmed printers.

Even in Heaven the pessimistic poet writes, “Perhaps St. Peter will find a place for the "wrong font" typo to dwell,” and if not “he'll have to take boxes in - - - -.” “Hell” was the unwritten word and a play on the “hell box.” This was the typesetters' recycling bin for unwanted types about to be melted.

Using the same opening line of “picking and clicking” with a mouse, perhaps some modern, printer will offer up suitable praise or comment on the use of the technology of today.


The Song of the Printer
By Anonymous, from MacKellar¹s "The American Printer,” 1887

Pick and click goes the type in the stick,
As the printer stands at his case;
His eyes glance, and his fingers pick
The type at a rapid pace;
And one by one as the letters go,
Words are piled up steady and slow

Steady and slow, but still they grow,
And words of fire they soon will glow;
Wonderful words, that without a sound
Traverse the earth to its upmost bound;

Words that shall make the tyrant quake,
And the fetters of the oppress'd shall break;
Words that can crumble an army¹s might,
Or treble its strength in a righteous fight.

Yet the types they look but leaden and dumb,
As he puts them in place with finger and thumb,
But the printer smiles, and his work beguiles
By chanting a song as the letters he piles,

With pick and click,
Like the world¹s chronometer, tick, tick! tick!
O, where is the man with such simple tools
Can govern the world as I?

With a printing press, an iron stick,
And a little leaden die,
With paper of white, and ink of black,
I support the Right, and the Wrong attack.

Say, where is he, or who may he be,
That can rival the printer’s power?
To no monarchs that live the wall doth he give;
Their sway last only an hour;
While the printer grows, and God only knows
When his might shall cease to tower!


A Printer’s Lament
By A. K. H., Inland Printer, 1895

"Pick and click goes the type in the stick"
Will soon be a song of the past,
For the "setting" machine of brass and steel
Has come to stay at last.

There was a time--not so long ago
That our mem'ry to reach it strains,
When we thought, "They may MAKE the d - - - machines,
But they can't endow 'em with brains."

But, oh, how time has changed our minds
And caused our spirits to fall;
For many a printer who runs a machine,
Has no need of brains at all.

Oh, why don't someone invent a man
Of sheet-iron to take our place;
A telephone-phonographic kinetoscope man,
And do away with the race.

For the poor old "print" there'll soon be no place
But the Childs and Drexel asylum,
And even there he can't sleep in the beds,
Because they're afraid he'll "spile" 'em.

Perhaps St. Peter will find a place
For the "wrong font" typo to dwell,
But if he can't "get cases" in Paradise,
He'll have to take boxes in - - - -.