This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
THE FIREMEN OF THE LAND.
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.

373