"DON'T YOU SMELL FIRE?"
RUN!-run for St. Clement's engine!
For the Pawnbroker's all in a blaze,
And the pledges are frying and singing-
Oh! how the poor pawners will craze.!
Now where can the turncock be drinking?
Was there ever so thirsty an elf?—
But he still may tope on, for I'm thinking
That the plugs are as dry as himself.
The engines !—I hear them come rumbling;
There's the Phoenix! the Globe! and the Sun!
What a row there will be, and a grumbling,
When the water don't start for a run!
See! there they come racing and tearing,
All the street with loud voices is filled;
Oh! it's only the firemen a-swearing
At a man they've run over and killed!
How sweetly the sparks fly away now,
And twinkle like stars in the sky;
It's a wonder the engines don't play now,
But I never saw water so shy!
Why there is n't enough for a snipe,
And the fire it is fiercer, alas!
Oh! instead of the New River Pipe,
They have gone that they have—to the gas.
Only look at the poor little P's
On the roof—is there any thing sadder ? My dears, keep fast hold, if you please,
And they won't be an hour with the ladder!
But if any one's hot in their feet,
And in very great haste to be saved, Here's a nice easy bit in the street,
That M'Adam has lately unpaved!
There is some one—I see a dark shape
At that window, the hottest of all—
My good woman, why don't you escape?
Never think of your bonnet and shawl:
If your dress is n't perfect, what is it
For once in a way to your hurt?
When your husband is paying a visit
There, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt!
Only see how she throws out her chaney!
Her basins, and tea-pots, and all
The most brittle of her goods-or any,
But they all break in breaking their fall:
Such things are not surely the best
From a two-story window to throwShe might save a good iron-bound chest, For there's plenty of people below!
O dear! what a beautiful flash!
How it shone thro' the window and door; We shall soon hear a scream and a crash, When the woman falls thro' with the floor! There! there! what a volley of flame, And then suddenly all is obscured!— Well-I'm glad in my heart that I came ;But I hope the poor man is insured!
ONE widow at a grave will sob
A little while, and weep, and sigh!
If two should meet on such a job,
They'll have a gossip by and by.
If three should come together-why,
Three widows are good company!
If four should meet by any chance,
Four is a number very nice,
To have a rubber in a trice—
But five will up and have a dance!
Poor Mrs. C― (why should I not
Declare her name?—her name was Cross)
Was one of those the "common lot"
(6 no common loss:"
For she had lately buried then
A man, the "very best of men,
A lingering truth, discovered first
Whenever men ((
are at the worst.'
To take the measure of her woe,
It was some dozen inches deep-
I mean in crape, and hung so low,
It hid the drops she did not weep;
In fact, what human life appears,
It was a perfect "veil of tears.'
Though ever since she lost "her prop
And stay"-alas! he would n't stay-
She never had a tear to mop,
Except one little angry drop,
From Passion's eye, as Moore would say;
Because, when Mister Cross took flight,
It looked so very like a spite-
He died upon a washing-day!
Still Widow Cross went twice a week,
As if "to wet a widow's cheek,"
And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy-
'T was nothing but a make-believe,
She might as well have hoped to grieve
Enough of brine to float a navy;
And yet she often seemed to raise
A cambric kerchief to her eye-
A duster ought to be the phrase,
Its work was all so very dry.
The springs were locked that ought to flow-
In England or in widow-woman-
As those that watch the weather know,
Such "backward Springs" are not uncommon.
But why did Widow Cross take pains,
To call upon the "dear remains".
Remains that could not tell a jot,
Whether she ever wept or not,
Or how his relict took her losses?
Oh! my black ink turns red for shame-
But still the naughty world must learn,
There was a little German came
To shed a tear in "Anna's Urn,"
At the next grave to Mr. Cross's !
For there an angel's virtues slept,
"Too soon did Heaven assert its claim !"
But still her painted face he kept,
Encompassed in an angel's frame."
He looked quite sad and quite deprived,
His head was nothing but a hat-band;
He looked so lone and so unwived,
That soon the Widow Cross contrived
To fall in love with even that band;
And all at once the brackish juices
Came gushing out through sorrow's sluices-
Tear after tear too fast to wipe,
Tho' sopped, and sopped, and sopped again-
No leak in sorrow's private pipe,
But like a bursting on the main !
Whoe'er has watched the window-pane-
I mean to say in showery weather-
Has seen two little drops of rain,
Like lovers very fond and fain,
At one another creeping, creeping,
Till both, at last, embrace together:
So fared it with that couple's weeping,
The principle was quite as active—
Tear unto tear
Kept drawing near,
very blacks became attractive. To cut a shortish story shorter, Conceive them sitting tête-à-tête
Two cups-hot muffins on a plate—
With "Anna's Urn" to hold hot water!
The brazen vessel for a while
Had lectured in an easy song,
Like Abernethy—on the bile—
The scalded herb was getting strong;
All seemed as smooth as smooth could be,
To have a cosy cup of tea;
Alas! how often human sippers
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