Fire!

By Sir W. S.


Written on the occasion of the visit of the United Fire Brigades to Oxford, 1887.



I.

St. Giles's street is fair and wide,
    St. Giles's street is long;
But long or wide, may naught abide
    Therein of guile or wrong;
For through St. Giles's, to and fro,
The mild ecclesiastics go
    From prime to evensong.
It were a fearsome task, perdie!
To sin in such good company.



II.

Long had the slanting beam of day
Proclaimed the Thirtieth of May
Ere now, erect, its fiery heat
Illumined all that hallowed street,
And breathing benediction on
Thy serried battlements, St. John,
Suffused at once with equal glow
The cluster'd Archipelago,
The Art Professor's studio
    And Mr. Greenwood's shop,
Thy building, Pusey, where below
The stout Salvation soldiers blow
    The cornet till they drop;
Thine, Balliol, where we move, and oh!
    Thine, Randolph, where we stop.



III.

But what is this that frights the air,
And wakes the curate from his lair
    In Pusey's cool retreat,
To leave the feast, to climb the stair,
    And scan the startled street?
As when perambulate the young
And call with unrelenting tongue
    On home, mamma, and sire;
Or voters shout with strength of lung
    For Hall & Co's Entire;
Or Sabbath-breakers scream and shout--
The band of Booth, with drum devout,
Eliza on her Sunday out,
    Or Farmer with his choir:--



IV.

E'en so, with shriek of fife and drum
    And horrid clang of brass,
The Fire Brigades of England come
    And down St. Giles's pass.
Oh grand, methinks, in such array
To spend a Whitsun Holiday
    All soaking to the skin!
(Yet shoes and hose alike are stout;
The shoes to keep the water out,
    The hose to keep it in.)


V.

They came from Henley on the Thames,
    From Berwick on the Tweed,
And at the mercy of the flames
They left their children and their dames,
To come and play their little games
    On Morrell's dewy mead.
Yet feared they not with fire to play--
The pyrotechnics (so they say)
    Were very fine indeed.



VI.

(P.S. by Lord Macaulay).

Then let us bless Our Gracious Queen and eke the Fire Brigade,
And bless no less the horrid mess they've been and gone and made;
Remove the dirt they chose to squirt upon our best attire,
Bless all, but most the lucky chance that no one shouted 'Fire!'

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, born on November 21, 1863, and died on May 12, 1944, was a Cornish writer, who published under the pen name Q. His legacy includes a vast body of critical and anthological work, most notably 'The Oxford Book of English Verse 1250–1900'. Quiller-Couch was knighted in 1910 and also served as a professor of English at the University of Cambridge. His works have influenced many, including writers like Virginia Woolf.

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch

As I Laye A-Dreamynge. L'Envoi.

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Simple Poetry

Written Upon Love's Frontier-Post. (From 'Troy Town'.)

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Simple Poetry

De Tea Fabula.

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Simple Poetry

Chant Royal Of High Virtue

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Fables For The Holy Alliance. Fable Vii. The Extinguishers.

PROEM.

Tho' soldiers are the true supports,
The natural allies of Courts,
Woe to the Monarch, who depends
Too much on his red-coated friends;
For even soldiers sometimes think--
    Nay, Colonels have been known to reason,--

And reasoners, whether clad in pink
Or red or blue, are on the brink
    (Nine cases out of ten) of treason

Not many soldiers, I believe, are
    As fond of liberty as Mina;
Else--woe to Kings! when Freedom's fever
    Once turns into a Scarletina!
For then--but hold--'tis best to veil
My meaning in the following tale:--

FABLE.

A Lord of Persia, rich and great,
Just come into a large estate,
Was shockt to find he had, for neighbors,
Close to his gate, some rascal...

Thomas Moore

Fire.

[From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]


MARCH 15, 18 - .

    Fire! - fire! - fire! - fire! - it sets me in a craze
    To see a first-class building all ablaze;
    A burning house resembles, when I'm nigh,
    Some old acquaintance just about to die;
    For structures that a person often sees
    Look some like human beings - same as trees.
    (There used to be some trees on my old place
    That I'd know anywhere - just by their face.)
    And when, last night, some bells began to cry,
    And big fire-engines rushed and rattled by,
    In just three minutes down the stairs I strode,
    And hurried - somewhat dressed - into the road
    (Partly to help a bit, if so might be,
    And partly, I suppose, to hear and see).
    It was a d...

William McKendree Carleton

The Palace.

They come, they come, with fife and drum,
And gleaming pikes and glancing banners:
Though the eyes flash, the lips are dumb;
To talk in rank would not be manners.
Onward they stride, as Britons can;
The ladies following in the Van.

Who, who be these that tramp in threes
Through sumptuous Piccadilly, through
The roaring Strand, and stand at ease
At last 'neath shadowy Waterloo?
Some gallant Guild, I ween, are they;
Taking their annual holiday.

To catch the destin'd train - to pay
Their willing fares, and plunge within it -
Is, as in old Romaunt they say,
With them the work of half-a-minute.
Then off they're whirl'd, with songs and shouting,
To cedared Sydenham for their outing.

I mark'd them light, with faces bright
As pansies o...

Charles Stuart Calverley

How We Fought The Fire.

I.

        'Twas a drowsy night on Tompkins Hill:
        The very leaves of the trees lay still;
        The world was slumbering, ocean deep;
        And even the stars seemed half asleep,
        And winked and blinked at the roofs below,
        As yearning for morn, that they might go.
        The streets as stolid and still did lie
        As they would have done if streets could die;
        The sidewalks stretched as quietly prone
        As if a foot they had never known;
        And not a cottage within the town,
        But looked as if it would fain lie down.
        Away in the west a stacken-cloud,
        With white arms drooping and bare head bowed,
        Was leaning against - with drowsy eye -
        The dark blue velveting of the sky...

William McKendree Carleton

The Bushfire - An Allegory

'Twas on the famous Empire run,
Whose sun does never set,
Whose grass and water, so they say,
Have never failed them yet,
They carry many million sheep,
Through seasons dry and wet.

They call the homestead Albion House,
And then, along with that,
There's Welshman's Gully, Scotchman's Hill,
And Paddymelon Flat:
And all these places are renowned
For making jumbacks fat.

And the out-paddocks, holy frost!
There wouldn't be no sense
For me to try and tell you half,
They really are immense;
A man might ride for days and weeks
And never strike a fence.

But still for years they never had
Been known a sheep to lose;
Old Billy Gladstone managed it,
And you can bet your shoes
He'd scores of supers under him,
And droves...

Andrew Barton Paterson

The Fire Brigade

Hark! high o'er the rattle and clamour and clatter
    Of traffic-filled streets, do you hear that loud noise?
And pushing and rushing to see what's the matter,
    Like herds of wild cattle, go pell-mell the boys.

There's a fire in the city! the engines are coming!
    The bold bells are clanging, "Make way in the street!"
The wheels of the hose-cart are spinning and humming
    In time to the music of galloping feet.

Make way there! make way there! the horses are flying,
    The sparks from their swift hoofs shoot higher and higher,
The crowds are increasing - the gamins are crying:
    "Hooray, boys!"    "Hooray, boys!"    "Come on to the fire!"

With clanging and banging and clatter and rattle
    The long ladders follow the engine and hose.
The men...

Ella Wheeler Wilcox