They don't want no marrow-bone music, There's the fireman's band come to play; It's a fireman that's going to get married,
And you don't see such sights every day!
They're in the church now, and we're waiting
To give them a cheer as they come;
And the grumbler that wouldn't join in it
Deserves all his life to go dumb.
They won't be out for a minute,
So if you've got time and will stay,
I'll tell you right from the beginning
About this 'ere wedding to-day.
"One night I was fast getting drowsy,
And thinking of going to bed,
When I heard such a clattering and shouting'That sounds like an engine!' I said.
"So I jumped up and opened the window:
'It's a fire sure enough, wife,' says I;
For the people were running and shouting,
And the red glare quite lit up the sky.
"I kicked off my old carpet slippers
And on with my boots in a jiff;
I hung up my pipe in the corner
Without waiting to have the last whiff.
"The wife, she just grumbled a good 'un,
But I didn't take notice of that,
For I on with my coat in a minute,
And sprang down the stairs like a cat!
"I followed the crowd, and it brought me
In front of the house in a blaze;
At first I could see nothing clearly,
For the smoke made it all of a haze.
"The firemen were shouting their loudest,
And unwinding great lengths of hose;
The peelers,' were pushing the people,
And treading on every one's toes.
"I got pushed with some more in a corner, Where I couldn't move, try as I might; But little I cared for the squeezing
So long as I had a good sight.
"Ah, sir, it was grand! but 'twas awful!
The flames leaped up higher and higher:
The wind seemed to get underneath them,
Till they roared like a great blacksmith's fire!
"I was just looking round at the people, With their faces lit up by the glare,
When I heard some one cry, hoarse with terror, 'Oh, look! there's a woman up there!'
"I shall never forget the excitement,
My heart beat as loud as a clock;
I looked at the crowd, they were standing
As if turned to stone by the shock.
"And there was the face at the window,
With its blank look of haggard despair-
Her hands were clasped tight on her bosom,
And her white lips were moving in prayer.
"The staircase was burnt to a cinder,
There wasn't a fire-escape near;
But a ladder was brought from the builder's,
And the crowd gave a half-frightened cheer.
"The ladder was put to the window,
While the flames were still raging below: I looked, with my heart in my mouth, then, To see who would offer to go!
"When up sprang a sturdy young fireman, As a sailor would climb up a mast;
We saw him go in at the window,
And we cheered as though danger were past.
"We saw nothing more for a moment,
But the sparks flying round us like rain;
And then as we breathlessly waited,
He came to the window again.
"And on his broad shoulder was lying,
The face of that poor fainting thing,
And we gave him a cheer as we never
Yet gave to a prince or a king.
"He got on the top of the ladder
I can see him there now, noble lad!
And the flames underneath seemed to know it,
For they leaped at that ladder like mad.
"But just as he got to the middle,
I could see it begin to give way,
For the flames had got hold of it now, sir!
I could see the thing tremble and sway.
"He came but a step or two lower,
Then sprang with a cry to the ground;
And then, you would hardly believe it,
He stood with the girl safe and sound.
"I took off my old hat and waved it:
I couldn't join in with the cheer,
For the smoke had got into my eyes, sir,
And I felt such a choking just here.
"And now, sir, they're going to get married,
I bet you, she'll make a good wife;
And who has the most right to have her ?-
Why, the fellow that saved her young life!
"A beauty! ah, sir, I believe you!
Stand back, lads! stand back! here they are!
We'll give them the cheer that we promised,
Now, lads, with a hip, hip, hurrah!”
(By permission of the Author.)
OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.
[Will Carleton, the poet, must not be confounded with the author of "Traits of the Irish Peasantry," bearing the same name. The latter was an Irishman, born 1798, died 1869. The former an American, still living, is best known by his "Farm Ballads," "Farm Festivals," and "Farm Legends."]
OVER the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way—
I, a woman of seventy, an' only a trifle grey-
I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I told,
As many another woman that's only half as old.
Over the hill to the poor-house-I can't quite make it clear-
Over the hill to the poor-house-it seems so horrid queer!
Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro,
But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.
What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame?
Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame?
True, I am not so supple, not yet so awful stout,
But charity ain't no favour, if one can live without.
I am willin' and anxious and ready any day
To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way;
For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound,
If anybody only is willin' to have me round.
Once I was young an' han'some-I was, upon my soul,
Once my cheeks was roses, and my eyes as black as coal;
And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say,
For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.
'Tain't no use a-boastin', or talkin' overfree,
But many a house an' home was open then to me;
Many a han'some offer have I had from likely men,
And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.
And when to John I was married sure he was good an' smart,
And he and all the neighbours would own I'd done my part;
For life was all before me, an' I was young, an' strong,
I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along.
And so we worked together; and life was hard but gay,
With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way;
Till we had half a dozen and all growed clean and neat,
And went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.
So we worked for the children an' raised them every one;
Worked for 'em summer an' winter, just as we ought to 've
done;
Only perhaps we humoured 'em, which some good folks condemn,
But every couple's children's a heap the best to them.
Strange, how much we think of our blessed little ones!-
I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons;
And God he made that rule of love; but when we 're old and grey,
I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.
Strange, another thing; when our boys an' girls was grown,
And when, excepting Charlie, they'd left us there alone;
When John he nearer and nearer come, and dearer seemed to be,
The Lord of Hosts he come one day and took him away from me.
Still I was bound to struggle, and never to cringe or fall—
Still I worked for Charlie, for Charlie was now my all;
And Charlie was pretty good to me, with a scarce a word or frown,
Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town.
She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile
She was conceity, and carried a heap o' style;
But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;
But she was hard an' proud, an' I couldn't make it go.
She had an edication, an' that was good for her,
But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carrying things too fur;
And I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick),
That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rithmetic.
So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done-
They was a family of themselves, an' I another one;
And a very little cottage, one family will do,
But I never seen a house that was big enough for two.
An' I never could speak to suit her, I never could please her eye,
An' it made me independent, and then I didn't try;
But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow,
When Charlie turned agin me, an' told me I could go.
I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small,
And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all;
And what with her husband's sisters, an' what with children three, 'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.
And then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got,
For Thomas's buildings 'd a cover the half of an acre lot;
But all the children was on me-I couldn't stand their sauce-
And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.
An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West,
And to Isaac, not far from her-some twenty miles at best;
And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for anyone so old,
And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold.
So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about-
So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out;
But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down,
Till Charlie went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town.
Over the hill to the poor-house-my childr'n dear, good bye!
Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh;
And God 'Il judge between us; but I will al'ays pray
That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day.
(By permission of Messrs. Sampson Low & Co.)
MARY, THE MAID OF THE INN.
WHO is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly-fixed eyes
Seem a heart overcharg'd to express ?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs:
She never complains, but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.
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