The Fireman’s Boy.
Mother, look out and see that light—
How red it makes the sky;
Oh, ’tis a grand though fearful sight!
See how the bright sparks fly!
It is a house on fire, my son,—
An agonizing sight;
It serves to make more deep the gloom
That haunts my soul to-night.
Mother, what dreadful noise is that,
Which thunders o’er the pave?
Who are those men in pretty caps
And shirts of red, so brave?
’Tis the heavy engines, son, that make
The deafening noise you hear;
Those gallant men with pretty hats
Are firemen brave, my dear.
Oh, were my father but alive,
Would you not, mother, try
To make him be a fireman too?
But, ah! why do you cry?
I would not chill the sunny glow
That nestles in thy breast,
Nor have thy little heart to know
The pangs which mine oppress.
Nay, mother, pray confide to me
The griefs which wring thy heart;
I’m sure I do not wish to be
More happy than thou art.
God bless thee, boy; I can but weep,
Yet ’tis with mingled joy,
To think how like thy father’s self
Thou art, my noble boy!
He was a fireman, gallant, brave,
As ever grasp’d a robe;
A nobler heart ne’er beat to save
The sufferer void of hope.
One stormy night, the deep-toned bell,
The firemen summon’d forth
To duty; but, alas! he fell,
My dearest hope on earth.
He fearless rush’d through smoke and flame
To save a hapless child,
Whose fearful screams he heard amid
The din and storm so wild.
His brave companions brought him forth,
And many a manly tear
Coursed down their blacken’d cheeks,
And fell upon a fireman’s bier.
’Mid Greenwood’s consecrated bloom,
The drooping willow weeps
Its dewy tear, beside the tomb
Where thy brave father sleeps.
Oh, ’twere a noble death to die!
My heart swells big with pride!
And though I weep, yet proud am I
To think how father died.
I wish that I were but a man,
In firemen’s rig I’d dress;
“Hurrah, my boys, don’t lag!” I’d shout
As loudly as the rest.
What though I met my father’s fate?
I am sure I could not die
In nobler cause, nor half so great:
But, mother, do not cry.
God bless thee, boy! and ever may
Untarnish’d be thy name;
Let cowards skulk, crave thou a way
That leads to endless fame.
’Tis winter now, but when the spring
Returns, my boy shall go
With me where wild birds sweetly sing,
And fragrant flowers grow.
To-morrow I will give thee seed
Of flowers choice to save;
And when we go to Greenwood, plant
Them round the fireman’s grave.
I grieve to see thee, mother, look
So very pale and worn;
I would I could restore the rose
Grief from thy cheek has torn.
How often, when so lovingly,
You kiss me in my bed,
I cry myself to sleep, and dream
I see my mother dead.
But my heart shall bless the fireman,
And sacred hold his name,
It proudly should emblazon’d be
Upon the scroll of fame.