Fire!

By Sir W. S.

Written on the occasion of the visit of the United Fire Brigades to Oxford, 1887.

I.

St. Giles's street is fair and wide, St. Giles's street is long; But long or wide, may naught abide Therein of guile or wrong; For through St. Giles's, to and fro, The mild ecclesiastics go From prime to evensong. It were a fearsome task, perdie! To sin in such good company.

II.

Long had the slanting beam of day Proclaimed the Thirtieth of May Ere now, erect, its fiery heat Illumined all that hallowed street, And breathing benediction on Thy serried battlements, St. John, Suffused at once with equal glow The cluster'd Archipelago, The Art Professor's studio And Mr. Greenwood's shop, Thy building, Pusey, where below The stout Salvation soldiers blow The cornet till they drop; Thine, Balliol, where we move, and oh! Thine, Randolph, where we stop.

III.

But what is this that frights the air, And wakes the curate from his lair In Pusey's cool retreat, To leave the feast, to climb the stair, And scan the startled street? As when perambulate the young And call with unrelenting tongue On home, mamma, and sire; Or voters shout with strength of lung For Hall & Co's Entire; Or Sabbath-breakers scream and shout-- The band of Booth, with drum devout, Eliza on her Sunday out, Or Farmer with his choir:--

IV.

E'en so, with shriek of fife and drum And horrid clang of brass, The Fire Brigades of England come And down St. Giles's pass. Oh grand, methinks, in such array To spend a Whitsun Holiday All soaking to the skin! (Yet shoes and hose alike are stout; The shoes to keep the water out, The hose to keep it in.)

V.

They came from Henley on the Thames, From Berwick on the Tweed, And at the mercy of the flames They left their children and their dames, To come and play their little games On Morrell's dewy mead. Yet feared they not with fire to play-- The pyrotechnics (so they say) Were very fine indeed.

VI.

(P.S. by Lord Macaulay).

Then let us bless Our Gracious Queen and eke the Fire Brigade, And bless no less the horrid mess they've been and gone and made; Remove the dirt they chose to squirt upon our best attire, Bless all, but most the lucky chance that no one shouted 'Fire!'

DE TEA FABULA.

Plain Language from truthful James.

Do I sleep? Do I dream? Am I hoaxed by a scout? Are things what they seem, Or is Sophists about? Is our "to ti en einai" a failure, or is Robert Browning played out?

Which expressions like these May be fairly applied By a party who sees A Society skied Upon tea that the Warden of Keble had biled with legitimate pride.

'Twas November the third, And I says to Bill Nye, 'Which it's true what I've heard: If you're, so to speak, fly, There's a chance of some tea and cheap culture, the sort recommended as High.'

Which I mentioned its name, And he ups and remarks: 'If dress-coats is the game And pow-wow in the Parks, Then I 'm nuts on Sordello and Hohenstiel-Schwangau and similar Snarks.'

Now the pride of Bill Nye Cannot well be express'd; For he wore a white tie And a cut-away vest: Says I, 'Solomon's lilies ain't in it, and they was reputed well dress'd.'

But not far did we wend, When we saw Pippa pass On the arm of a friend --Doctor Furnivall 'twas, And he wore in his hat two half-tickets for London, return, second-class.

'Well,' I thought, 'this is odd.' But we came pretty quick To a sort of a quad That was all of red brick, And I says to the porter,--'R. Browning: free passes; and kindly look slick.'

But says he, dripping tears In his check handkerchief, 'That symposium's career's Been regrettably brief, For it went all its pile upon crumpets and busted on gunpowder-leaf!'

Then we tucked up the sleeves Of our shirts (that were biled), Which the reader perceives That our feelings were riled, And we went for that man till his mother had doubted the traits of her child.

Which emotions like these Must be freely indulged By a party who sees A Society bulged On a reef the existence of which its prospectus had never divulged.

But I ask,--Do I dream? Has it gone up the spout? Are things what they seem, Or is Sophists about? Is our "to ti en einai" a failure, or is Robert Browning played out?

The Oxford Browning Society expired at Keble the week before this was written.

L'ENVOI.

AS I LAYE A-DREAMYNGE.

After T. I.

As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, O softlye moaned the dove to her mate within the tree, And meseemed unto my syghte Came rydynge many a knyghte All cased in armoure bryghte Cap-a-pie, As I laye a-dreamynge, a goodlye companye!

As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, O sadlye mourned the dove, callynge long and callynge lowe, And meseemed of alle that hoste Notte a face but was the ghoste Of a friend that I hadde loste Long agoe. As I laye a-dreamynge, oh, bysson teare to flowe!

As I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, O sadlye sobbed the dove as she seemed to despayre, And laste upon the tracke Came one I hayled as 'Jacke!' But he turned mee his backe With a stare: As I laye a-dreamynge, he lefte mee callynge there.

Stille I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, And gentler sobbed the dove as it eased her of her payne, And meseemed a voyce yt cry'd-- 'They shall ryde, and they shall ryde 'Tyll the truce of tyme and tyde Come agayne! Alle for Eldorado, yette never maye attayne!'

Stille I laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, And scarcelye moaned the dove, as her agonye was spente: 'Shalle to-morrowe see them nygher To a golden walle or spyre? You have better in yr fyre, Bee contente.' As I laye a-dreamynge, it seem'd smalle punyshment.

But I laye a-wakynge, and loe! the dawne was breakynge And rarely pyped a larke for the promyse of the daye: 'Uppe and sette yr lance in reste! Uppe and followe on the queste! Leave the issue to be guessed At the endynge of the waye'--

As I laye a-wakynge, 'twas soe she seemed to say-- 'Whatte and if it alle be feynynge? There be better thynges than gaynynge, Rycher pryzes than attaynynge.'-- And 'twas truthe she seemed to saye. Whyles the dawne was breakynge, I rode upon my waye.