 | The complete poetical works of Thomas Hood |  |
103
‘DON'T YOU SMELL FIRE?’
Run!—run for St. Clement's engine!
For the Pawnbroker's all in a blaze,
And the pledges are frying and singeing—
Oh! how the poor pawners will craze!
Now where can the turncock be drinking?
Was there ever so thirsty an elf?—
But he still may tope on, for I'm thinking
That the plugs are as dry as himself.
For the Pawnbroker's all in a blaze,
And the pledges are frying and singeing—
Oh! how the poor pawners will craze!
Now where can the turncock be drinking?
Was there ever so thirsty an elf?—
But he still may tope on, for I'm thinking
That the plugs are as dry as himself.
The engines!—I hear them come rumbling;
There's the Phœnix! the Globe! and the Sun!
What a row there will be, and a grumbling,
When the water don't start for a run!
See! there they come racing and tearing,
All the street with loud voices is fill'd;
Oh! it's only the firemen a-swearing
At a man they've run over and kill'd!
There's the Phœnix! the Globe! and the Sun!
What a row there will be, and a grumbling,
When the water don't start for a run!
See! there they come racing and tearing,
All the street with loud voices is fill'd;
Oh! it's only the firemen a-swearing
At a man they've run over and kill'd!
How sweetly the sparks fly away now,
And twinkle like stars in the sky;
It's a wonder the engines don't play now,
But I never saw water so shy!
Why there isn't enough for a snipe,
And the fire it is fiercer, alas!
Oh! instead of the New River pipe,
They have gone—that they have—to the gas!
And twinkle like stars in the sky;
It's a wonder the engines don't play now,
But I never saw water so shy!
Why there isn't enough for a snipe,
And the fire it is fiercer, alas!
Oh! instead of the New River pipe,
They have gone—that they have—to the gas!
Only look at the poor little P---'s
On the roof—is there anything sadder?
My dears, keep fast hold, if you please,
And they won't be an hour with the ladder!
But if any one's hot in their feet,
And in very great haste to be sav'd,
Here's a nice easy bit in the street,
That M'Adam has lately unpav'd!
On the roof—is there anything sadder?
My dears, keep fast hold, if you please,
And they won't be an hour with the ladder!
But if any one's hot in their feet,
And in very great haste to be sav'd,
Here's a nice easy bit in the street,
That M'Adam has lately unpav'd!
There is some one—I see a dark shape
At that window, the hottest of all,—
My good woman, why don't you escape?
Never think of your bonnet and shawl:
If your dress isn't perfect, what is it
For once in a way to your hurt?
When your husband is paying a visit
There, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt!
At that window, the hottest of all,—
My good woman, why don't you escape?
Never think of your bonnet and shawl:
If your dress isn't perfect, what is it
For once in a way to your hurt?
When your husband is paying a visit
There, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt!
Only see how she throws out her chaney!
Her basons, and teapots, and all
The most brittle of her goods—or any,
But they all break in breaking their fall:
Such things are not surely the best
From a two-storey window to throw—
She might save a good iron-bound chest,
For there's plenty of people below!
Her basons, and teapots, and all
The most brittle of her goods—or any,
But they all break in breaking their fall:
Such things are not surely the best
From a two-storey window to throw—
She might save a good iron-bound chest,
For there's plenty of people below!
O dear! what a beautiful flash!
How it shone thro' the window and door;
We shall soon hear a scream and a crash,
When the woman falls thro' with the floor!
There! there! what a volley of flame,
And then suddenly all is obscur'd!
Well—I'm glad in my heart that I came:—
But I hope the poor man is insur'd!
How it shone thro' the window and door;
We shall soon hear a scream and a crash,
When the woman falls thro' with the floor!
There! there! what a volley of flame,
And then suddenly all is obscur'd!
Well—I'm glad in my heart that I came:—
But I hope the poor man is insur'd!
| The complete poetical works of Thomas Hood | |