We dwell in a city fear-haunted,
And danger from fire is our lot;
Great pluck in our firemen is wanted,
And that they have certainly got.
We've stalwart young heroes in plenty
To fight with the fiery-tongued flame.
But to die when scarce past five-and-twenty,
Seems sad, though like SPRAGUE, you die game.
Our duty to-day seems quite certain
The aim, of the fund, is not vague;
_Punch_ hopes human pity will stir the whole city
To honour the memory of SPRAGUE.
In he dashed, though the hugh wall was frowning,
The wall which fell, crushing on him;
Friends toiled, as to rescue the drowning.
Mates dug, though with hope growing dim.
They found him, death's flood bravely breasting,[A]
Ten hours of lone anguish he bore.
Now, alas! the brave fireman is resting,
To fight London's fire-fiend no more.
Though honour o'er _him_ drops the curtain,
Our duty to his is _not_ vague.
Subscribe, London city, in pride, and proud pity,
And love of your brave fireman, SPRAGUE!
[Footnote A: "Covered with dirt, haggard, and hardly
recognisable for the vigorous man who had dashed into the
court ten hours before; he smiled faintly, and whispered words
of gratitude and hope. 'I am so glad you have come,' he said.
'I shall be all right again soon.'"--_Daily News._]
* * * * *
"I PROMESSI SPOSI."