Poems (Cook)/The Firemen of the Land

by Eliza Cook

THE FIREMEN OF THE LAND.

England, thou art justly proud
 Of thy men so tried and brave;
Well thy voice may boast aloud
 Of our Boatmen on the wave.
Gallant fellows! well they grace
 British song and Hero story;
They will take a foremost place
 When Valour counts her troops of glory.
But our cities long have shown
 Those that match the Sailor band;
Courage nobly claims her own
 In the Firemen of the Land.
Give them Honour, give them Fame,
A Health to hands that fight the Flame.

When the red sheet winds and whirls
 In the coil of frightful death;
When the banner'd smoke unfurls,
 And the hot walls drink our breath;
When the far-off crowd appears
 Choking in the demon glare,
And some helpless form uprears
 In that furnace of despair;—
"Save, oh, save!" the people cry,
 But who plucks the human brand?
Who will do the deed or die?
 'Tis a Fireman of the Land.
Then give them Honour, give them Fame,
A Health to hands that fight the Flame.

They who march to battle-field,
 With the bullet and the sword;
They who go to take or yield
 Life upon the crimson sward;
They who measure blade to blade;
 They who offer shot for shot,
With a heart that's ne'er afraid,
 With a courage free from blot;
Let such spirits ever live
 Foremost in a nation's band,
But as noble rank we'll give
 To the Firemen of the Land.
Then yield them Honour, give them Fame,
And drink to hands that fight the Flame.