True, Bench without Book may be blindish, but Book without Bench may be worse, To read penny papers won't feed you, if you haven't pence in your purse. Men can't live on cackle not nohow, the bulk of 'em that is to say; A few gassy spouts can, of course; for _they_ prate, don't you see, and _we_ pay; But _that_ rule will not work all round, thanks be!--a skilled hand, a sharp eye Are the artisan's proper rig-out; and as for the rest of it, why Mr. Schoolmaster there does his best with his 'ologies, 'isms, and things, But if a man's lot is to trudge, it is small use a-fitting him wings. No, I 'm not against learning, not me; but life's battle means gumption and tools, That is for the general ruck, and the saps who deny it are fools. I remembered my father, old Millwright, in days as no more will be seen, When a man put his soul in his work, a mechanic was not a machine. It would take lots o' "technical" teaching to bring our lads up to his trim, Or make our mere chippers and filers a match for such workmen as _him_. He _had_ been through the mill, a rare grind, for apprenticeship then meant it's name. I have known him take ten quid a week, only wish I could earn half the same. Times altered? Of course; so have systems, and not for the better some ways. I've read, for I _can_ read, you know, of the wild old apprentices' days, When the shout of "Clubs! Clubs!" roused the town, and political feelings ran high, And the stiff Spanish courtiers went weak in the hams at the ominous cry. Wild blades!--but the youngsters could work, knew their craft; but you pale, loose-limbed lout, The sort of crammed hobbledehoy that the School-Board appears to turn out, Who can spell out Sedition in penn'orths, and howl it out hot in the Square, If you give him the "Work" that he yells for with so much wild blather and blare, What sort of a fist will he make of it? Which of the blustering band Has a really sound head on his shoulders, a really skilled craft to his hand?