IN PITY FOR SPRAGUE.
[A fund is being raised in aid of the widow of the fireman Sprague, who met his death gallantly in the late explosion in the Strand. "Sprague was a young man, under 30 years of age, of good character and promise. His widow has one child, and is soon again to become a mother."—Times. Any subscriptions forwarded to Mr. W. O. Reader, Vestry Clerk, 151, Strand, towards the relief fund, will be thankfully received and acknowledged.]
Air—Prowse's "City of Prague."
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,*
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!
* "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.