The Fire Fiend has schemes, it is credibly said,
For laying half London in ashes;
But Water—and Shaw—are the things he must dread,
And at sight of an engine he shakes his red head,
And his teeth like a lunatic gnashes.
But his fire-gnomes he multiplies lately so fast
That the task of repressing them’s trying;
The flare that they make and the heat that they cast,
Are so great that the Fiend seems resolved in one blast
To set the Metropolis frying.