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

Caliban Upon Rudiments[1]. Or Autoschediastic Theology In A Hole.

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Simple Poetry

Willaloo.

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Simple Poetry

The Root

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Simple Poetry

To Maurice Hewlett

Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch, Simple Poetry

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