To distant fields the blaze was borne,
And daisy white and hoary thorn
In borrow'd lustre seemed to sham
The rose of red sweet Wil-li-am.
To those who on the hills around
Beheld the flames from Drury's mound,
As from a lofty altar rise,

It seem'd that nations did conspire
To offer to the god of fire

Some vast stupendous sacrifice!
The summon'd firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all:
Starting from short and broken snooze,
Each sought his pond'rous hobnail'd shoes,
But first his worsted hosen plied,
Plush breeches next, in crimson dyed,

His nether bulk embraced;
Then jacket thick, of red or blue,
Whose massy shoulder gave to view
The badge of each respective crew,

In tin or copper traced.

The engines thunder'd through the street,
Fire-hook, pipe, bucket, all complete,
And torches glared, and clattering feet
Along the pavement paced.
And one, the leader of the band,
From Charing Cross along the Strand,
Like stag by beagles hunted hard,
Ran till he stopp'd at Vin'gar Yard.
The burning badge his shoulder bore,
The belt and oil-skin hat he wore,
The cane he had, his men to bang,
Show'd foreman of the British gang-
His name was Higginbottom. Now
'Tis meet that I should tell you how

The others came in view:
The Hand-in-Hand the race begun,
Then came the Phoenix and the Sun,
Th' Exchange, where old insurers run,
The Eagle, where the new;
With these came Rumford, Bumford, Cole,
Robins from Hockley-in-the-Hole,
Lawson and Dawson, cheek by jowl,

Crump from St. Giles's Pound; Whitford and Mitford join'd the train, Huggins and Muggins from Chick Lane, And Clutterbuck, who got a sprain

Before the plug was found. Hobson and Jobson did not sleep, But ah! no trophy could they reap, For both were in the Donjon Keep Of Bridewell's gloomy mound!

E'en Higginbottom now was posed,
For sadder scene was ne'er disclosed.
Without, within, in hideous show,
Devouring flames resistless glow,
And blazing rafters downward go,
And never halloo "Heads below!"
Nor notice give at all.
The firemen, terrified, are slow
To bid the pumping torrent flow,
For fear the roof would fall.
Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof!
Whitford, keep near the walls!
Huggins, regard your own behoof,
For lo! the blazing, rocking roof
Down, down, in thunder falls!
An awful pause succeeds the stroke,
And o'er the ruins volumed smoke,
Rolling around its pitchy shroud,
Conceal'd them from th' astonish'd crowd
At length the mist a while was clear'd,
When, lo! amid the wreck uprear'd,
Gradually a moving head appear'd,

And Eagle firemen knew
'Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered,
The foreman of their crew.
Loud shouted all in signs of woe,
"A Muggins! to the rescue, ho!"

And pour'd the hissing tide:
Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,
And strove and struggled all in vain,
For, rallying but to fall again,
He totter'd, sunk, and died!

Did none attempt, before he fell,
To succor one they loved so well?
Yes, Higginbottom did aspire
(His fireman's soul was all on fire)
His brother chief to save;
But ah! his reckless generous ire

Served but to share his grave! 'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,

Where Muggins broke before.
But sulphury stench and boiling drench,
Destroying sight, o'erwhelm'd him quite,
He sunk to rise no more.

Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved,
His whizzing water-pipe he waved;
"Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps,
You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps.

Why are you in such doleful dumps?
A fireman and afraid of bumps!--
What are they fear'd on? fools! 'od rot
'em!"

Were the last words of Higginbottom.

THE REVIVAL.

Peace to his soul! new prospects bloom,
And toil rebuilds what fires consume!
Eat we, and drink we, be our ditty,
"Joy to the managing committee !"
Eat we and drink we, join to rum
Roast beef and pudding of the plum;
Forth from thy nook, John Horner,
come,

With bread of ginger brown thy thumb,

For this is Drury's gay day:
Roll, roll thy hoop, and twirl thy tops,
And buy, to glad thy smiling chops,
Crisp parliament with lollypops,

And fingers of the Lady.
Didst mark how toil'd the busy train
From morn to eve, till Drury Lane
Leap'd like a roebuck from the plain?
Ropes rose and sunk, and rose again,
And nimble workmen trod;
To realize bold Wyatt's plan
Rush'd many a howling Irishman;
Loud clatter'd many a porter-can,
And many a ragamuffin clan,

With trowel and with hod.
Drury revives! her rounded pate
Is blue, is heavenly blue, with slate;
She "wings the midway air," elate

As magpie, crow, or chough;
White paint her modish visage smears,
Yellow and pointed are her ears.
No pendent portico appears
Dangling beneath, for Whitbread's shears
Have cut the bauble off.
Yes, she exalts her stately head;
And, but that solid bulk outspread
Opposed you on your onward tread,
And posts and pillars warranted
That all was true that Wyatt said,

You might have deem'd her walls so thick
Were not composed of stone or brick,
But all a phantom, all a trick,
Of brain disturb'd and fancy-sick,
So high she soars, so vast, so quick!

HORACE SMITH.

THE THEATRE.

Interior of a Theatre described.-Pit gradually fills.The Check-taker.-Pit full-The Orchestra tuned.-One Fiddle rather dilatory.-Is reproved, and re pents.-Evolutions of a Play-bill-Its final Settlement on the Spikes.-The Gods taken to task-and why.-Motley Group of Play-goers.- Holywell street, St. Pancras.-Emanuel Jennings binds his Son apprentice-not in London-and why.-Episode of the Hat.

"TIS sweet to view, from half-past five to six,

Our long wax-candles, with short cotton wicks,

Touch'd by the lamplighter's Promethean art,

Start into light, and make the lighter start;

To see red Phoebus through the gallerypane

Tinge with his beams the beams of Drury Lane:

While gradual parties fill our widen'd pit,

In unison their various tones to tune, Murmurs the hautboy, growls the coarse bassoon;

In soft vibration sighs the whispering lute,

Tang goes the harpsichord, too-too the flute,

Brays the loud trumpet, squeaks the fiddle sharp,

Bankers from Paper Buildings here resort,

Bankrupts from Golden Square and Riches court;

From the Haymarket canting rogues in grain,

Gulls from the Poultry, sots from Water Lane;

tingling harp;

will

Give, half ashamed, a tiny flourish still. Foil'd in his clash, the leader of the clan Reproves with frowns the dilatory man : Then on his candlestick thrice taps his bow, Nods a new signal, and away they go.

Perchance, while pit and gallery cry "Hats off!"

pence more;

Till some Samaritan the twopence spares, And sends them jumping up the gallerystairs.

Critics we boast who ne'er their malice balk,

But talk their minds: we wish they'd mind their talk:

cough,

Some giggling daughter of the Queen of Love

Drops, 'reft of pin, her play-bill from above:

Like Icarus, while laughing galleries clap, Soars, ducks, and dives in air the printed scrap;

But, wiser far than he, combustion fears,
And, as it flies, eludes the chandeliers;
Till, sinking gradual, with repeated twirl,
It settles, curling, on a fiddler's curl;
Who from his powder'd pate the intruder
strikes,

And, for mere malice, sticks it on the spikes.

Say, why these Babel strains from Babel tongues?

Who's that calls "Silence!" with such leathern lungs?

He who, in quest of quiet, "Silence!" hoots,

Is apt to make the hubbub he imputes.

What various swains our motley walls

contain !

Fashion from Moorfields, honor from Chick

Lane;

Who give the lie, and tell the lie they

give;

Jews from St. Mary's Axe, for jobs so

wary

That for old clothes they'd even ax St. Mary;

And bucks with pockets empty as their pate,

Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait ; Who oft, when we our house lock up,

carouse

With tippling tipstaves in a lock-up house.

Yet here, as elsewhere, Chance can joy bestow,

Where scowling fortune seem'd to threaten

woe.

John Richard William Alexander Dwyer

Was footman to Justinian Stubbs, Esquire;

But when John Dwyer 'listed in the Blues,

Emanuel Jennings polish'd Stubbs's shoes. Emanuel Jennings brought his youngest boy

Up as a corn-cutter-a safe employ;

In Holywell street, St. Pancras, he was bred

(At number twenty-seven, it is said), Facing the pump, and near the Granby's Head:

He would have bound him to some shop in town,

But with a premium he could not come down.

Pat was the urchin's name-a red-hair'd youth,

Fonder of purl and skittle-grounds than truth.

Silence, ye gods! to keep your tongue in awe,

The Muse shall tell an accident she saw.

Pat Jennings in the upper gallery sat, But, leaning forward, Jennings lost his hat:

Down from the gallery the beaver flew, And spurn'd the one to settle in the two. How shall he act? Pay at the gallerydoor

Two shillings for what cost, when new, but four?

Or till half-price, to save his shilling, wait,

And gain his hat again at half-past eight? Now, while his fears anticipate a thief, John Mullins whispers, "Take my handkerchief."

"Thank you," cries Pat; "but one won't make a line."

"Take mine," cries Wilson; and cries Stokes, "Take mine."

A motley cable soon Pat Jennings ties, Where Spitalfields with real India vies. Like Iris' bow, down darts the painted clew,

Starr'd, striped, and spotted, yellow, red, and blue,

Old calico, torn silk and muslin new. George Green below, with palpitating hand

Loops the last 'kerchief to the beaver's band

Up soars the prize! The youth with joy unfeign'd,

Regain'd the felt, and felt the prize regain'd;

While to the applauding galleries grateful Pat

Made a low bow, and touch'd the ransom'd hat.

JAMES SMITH.

THE BABY'S DÉBUT.

[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl of eight years of age, who is drawn upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.]

My brother Jack was nine in May,
And I was eight on New Year's day;
So in Kate Wilson's shop
Papa (he's my papa and Jack's)
Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,

And brother Jack a top.

Jack's in the pouts, and this it is—
He thinks mine came to more than his;
So to my drawer he goes,

Takes out the doll, and, oh, my stars!
He pokes her head between the bars,
And melts off half her nose!

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,
And tie it to his peg-top's peg,

And bang, with might and main, Its head against the parlor-door: Off flies the head, and hits the floor, And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite;
Well, let him cry, it serves him right.

A pretty thing, forsooth!
If he's to melt, all scalding hot,
Half my doll's nose, and I am not
To draw his peg-top's tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake,

Thus to distress your aunt! No Drury Lane for you to-day!" And while papa said, "Pooh, she may !” Mamma said, "No, she sha'n't!"

Well, after many a sad reproach,
They got into a hackney-coach,

And trotted down the street.
I saw them go: one horse was blind,
The tails of both hung down behind,
Their shoes were on their feet.