Page:Poems Cook.djvu/389

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.

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