My shoulders cracked to send around Those shrieking birds made out of sound With news of fire in their bills.

(They heard 'em plain beyond Wall Hills.)

Up go the winders, out come heads, I heard the springs go creak in beds; But still I heave and sweat and tire, And still the clang goes 'Fire, Fire!'

'Where is it, then? Who is it, there?

You ringer, stop, and tell us where.'

'Run round and let the Captain know.'

'It must be bad, he's ringing so.'

'It's in the town, I see the flame; Look there! Look there, how red it came.'

'Where is it, then 'O stop the bell.'

I stopped and called: 'It's fire of h.e.l.l; And this is Sodom and Gomorrah, And now I'll burn you up, begorra.'

By this the firemen were mustering, The half-dressed stable men were fl.u.s.tering, Backing the horses out of stalls While this man swears and that man bawls, 'Don't take th'old mare. Back, Toby, back.

Back, Lincoln. Where's the fire, Jack?'

'd.a.m.ned if I know. Out Preston way.'

'No. It's at Chancey's Pitch, they say.'

'It's sixteen ricks at Pauntley burnt.'

'You back old Darby out, I durn't.'

They ran the big red engine out, And put 'em to with d.a.m.n and shout.

And then they start to raise the shire, 'Who brought the news, and where's the fire?'

They'd moonlight, lamps, and gas to light 'em.

I give a screech-owl's screech to fright 'em, And s.n.a.t.c.h from underneath their noses The nozzles of the fire hoses.

'I am the fire. Back, stand back, Or else I'll fetch your skulls a crack; D'you see these copper nozzles here?

They weigh ten pounds apiece, my dear; I'm fire of h.e.l.l come up this minute To burn this town, and all that's in it.

To burn you dead and burn you clean, You cogwheels in a stopped machine, You hearts of snakes, and brains of pigeons, You dead devout of dead religions, You offspring of the hen and a.s.s, By Pilate ruled, and Caiaphas.

Now your account is totted. Learn h.e.l.l's flames are loose and you shall burn.'

At that I leaped and screamed and ran, I heard their cries go 'Catch him, man.'

'Who was it?' 'Down him.' 'Out him, Ern.

'Duck him at pump, we'll see who'll burn.'

A policeman clutched, a fireman clutched, A dozen others s.n.a.t.c.hed and touched.

'By G.o.d, he's stripped down to his buff.'

'By G.o.d, we'll make him warm enough.'

'After him.' 'Catch him,' 'Out him,' 'Scrob him.

'We'll give him h.e.l.l.' 'By G.o.d, we'll mob him.'

'We'll duck him, scrout him, flog him, fratch him.

'All right,' I said. 'But first you'll catch him.'

The men who don't know to the root The joy of being swift of foot, Have never known divine and fresh The glory of the gift of flesh, Nor felt the feet exult, nor gone Along a dim road, on and on, Knowing again the bursting glows, The mating hare in April knows, Who tingles to the pads with mirth At being the swiftest thing on earth.

O, if you want to know delight, Run naked in an autumn night, And laugh, as I laughed then, to find A running rabble drop behind, And whang, on every door you pa.s.s, Two copper nozzles, tipped with bra.s.s, And doubly whang at every turning, And yell, 'All h.e.l.l's let loose, and burning.'

I beat my bra.s.s and shouted fire At doors of parson, lawyer, squire, At all three doors I threshed and slammed And yelled aloud that they were d.a.m.ned.

I clodded squire's gla.s.s with turves Because he spring-gunned his preserves.

Through parson's gla.s.s my nozzle swishes Because he stood for loaves and fishes, But parson's gla.s.s I spared a t.i.ttle.

He give me an orange once when little, And he who gives a child a treat Makes joy-bells ring in Heaven's street, And he who gives a child a home Builds palaces in Kingdom come, And she who gives a baby birth Brings Saviour Christ again to Earth, For life is joy, and mind is fruit, And body's precious earth and root.

But lawyer's gla.s.s--well, never mind, Th'old Adam's strong in me, I find.

G.o.d pardon man, and may G.o.d's son Forgive the evil things I've done.

What more? By Dirty Lane I crept Back to the Lion, where I slept.

The raging madness hot and floodin'

Boiled itself out and left me sudden, Left me worn out and sick and cold, Aching as though I'd all grown old; So there I lay, and there they found me On door-mat, with a curtain round me.

Si took my heels and Jane my head And laughed, and carried me to bed.

And from the neighbouring street they reskied My boots and trousers, coat and weskit; They bath-bricked both the nozzles bright To be mementoes of the night, And knowing what I should awake with They flannelled me a quart to slake with, And sat and shook till half-past two Expecting Police Inspector Drew.

I woke and drank, and went to meat In clothes still dirty from the street.

Down in the bar I heard 'em tell How someone rang the fire-bell, And how th'inspector's search had thriven, And how five pounds reward was given.

And Shepherd Boyce, of Marley, glad us By saying it was blokes from mad'us, Or two young rips lodged at the Prince Whom none had seen nor heard of since, Or that young blade from Worcester Walk (You know how country people talk).

Young Joe the ostler come in sad, He said th'old mare had bit his dad.

He said there'd come a blazing screeching Daft Bible-prophet chap a-preaching, Had put th'old mare in such a taking She'd thought the b.l.o.o.d.y earth was quaking.

And others come and spread a tale Of cut-throats out of Gloucester jail, And how we needed extra cops With all them Welsh come picking hops; With drunken Welsh in all our sheds We might be murdered in our beds.

By all accounts, both men and wives Had had the scare up of their lives.

I ate and drank and gathered strength, And stretched along the bench full length, Or crossed to window seat to pat Black Silas Jones's little cat.

At four I called, 'You devil's own, The second trumpet shall be blown.

The second trump, the second blast; h.e.l.l's flames are loosed, and judgment's pa.s.sed.

Too late for mercy now. Take warning I'm death and h.e.l.l and Judgment morning.'

I hurled the bench into the settle, I banged the table on the kettle, I sent Joe's quart of cider spinning.

'Lo, here begins my second inning.'

Each bottle, mug, and jug and pot I smashed to crocks in half a tot; And Joe, and Si, and Nick, and Percy I rolled together topsy versy.

And as I ran I heard 'em call, 'Now d.a.m.n to h.e.l.l, what's gone with Saul?'

Out into street I ran uproarious The devil dancing in me glorious.

And as I ran I yell and shriek 'Come on, now, turn the other cheek.'

Across the way by almshouse pump I see old puffing parson stump.

Old parson, red-eyed as a ferret From nightly wrestlings with the spirit; I ran across, and barred his path.

His turkey gills went red as wrath And then he froze, as parsons can.

'The police will deal with you, my man.'

'Not yet,' said I, 'not yet they won't; And now you'll hear me, like or don't.

The English Church both is and was A subsidy of Caiaphas.

I don't believe in Prayer nor Bible, They're lies all through, and you're a libel, A libel on the Devil's plan When first he miscreated man.

You mumble through a formal code To get which martyrs burned and glowed.

I look on martyrs as mistakes, But still they burned for it at stakes; Your only fire's the jolly fire Where you can guzzle port with Squire, And back and praise his d.a.m.ned opinions About his temporal dominions.

You let him give the man who digs, A filthy hut unfit for pigs, Without a well, without a drain, With mossy thatch that lets in rain, Without a 'lotment, 'less he rent it, And never meat, unless he scent it, But weekly doles of 'leven shilling To make a grown man strong and willing, To do the hardest work on earth And feed his wife when she gives birth, And feed his little children's bones.

I tell you, man, the Devil groans.

With all your main and all your might You back what is against what's right; You let the Squire do things like these, You back him in't and give him ease, You take his hand, and drink his wine, And he's a hog, but you're a swine.

For you take gold to teach G.o.d's ways And teach man how to sing G.o.d's praise.

And now I'll tell you what you teach In downright honest English speech.

'You teach the ground-down starving man That Squire's greed's Jehovah's plan.

You get his learning circ.u.mvented Lest it should make him discontented (Better a brutal, starving nation Than men with thoughts above their station), You let him neither read nor think, You goad his wretched soul to drink And then to jail, the drunken boor; O sad intemperance of the poor.

You starve his soul till it's rapscallion, Then blame his flesh for being stallion.

You send your wife around to paint The golden glories of "restraint."

How moral exercise bewild'rin'

Would soon result in fewer children.

You work a day in Squire's fields And see what sweet restraint it yields; A woman's day at turnip picking, Your heart's too fat for plough or ricking.

'And you whom luck taught French and Greek Have purple flaps on either cheek, A stately house, and time for knowledge, And gold to send your sons to college, That pleasant place, where getting learning Is also key to money earning.

But quite your d.a.m.n'dest want of grace Is what you do to save your face; The way you sit astride the gates By padding wages out of rates; Your Christmas gifts of shoddy blankets That every working soul may thank its Loving parson, loving squire Through whom he can't afford a fire.