American Old Time Song Lyrics: 31 The Firemans Boy
Theater, Music-Hall, Nostalgic, Irish & Historic Old Songs, Volume 31
THE FIREMAN'S BOY.
Tune-"The American Boy."
Mother, look out and see that light-how red it makes the sky;
Oh! 'tis a grand, though fearful sight! see how the bright sparks fly!
It is a house on fire, my son -an agonizing sight -
It serves to make more deep the gloom that haunts my soul to-night.
Mother, what dreadful noise is that which thunders o'er the pave?
Who are those men in pretty caps and shirts of red, so brave? .
'Tis the heavy engines, son, that makes the deafening noise you hear;
Those gallant men with pretty hats are firemen brave, my dear.
Oh! were my father but alive, would you not, mother, try
To make him be a fireman, too? but, ah! why do you cry?
I would not chill the sunny glow that nestles in thy breast,
Nor have thy little heart to know the pangs which mine oppress.
Nay, mother, pray, confide to me the griefs which wring thy heart;
I'm sure I do not wish to be more happy than thou art.
God bless thee, boy! I can but weep, yet 'tis with mingled joy,
To think how like thy father's self thou art, my noble boy.
He was a fireman, gallant, brave as ever grasped a rope;
A nobler heart ne'er bent to save the sufferer void of hope.
One stormy night the deep-toned bell the fireman summoned forth
To duty-but, alas! he fell, my dearest hope on earth.
He fearless rushed thro' smoke and flume to save a hapless child.
Whose fearful screams he heard amid the din and storm so wild.
His brave companions brought him forth, and many a manly tear
Coursed down their blackened cheeks, and fell upon a fireman's bier.
'Mid Greenwood's consecrated bloom, the drooping willow weeps
Its dewy tear beside the tomb where thy brave father sleeps.
Oh! 'twere a noble death to die! my heart swells big with pride!
And though I weep, yet proud am I to think how father died.
I wish that I were but a man in fireman's rig I'd dress;
"Hurrah, my boys, don't lag!" I'd shout as loud us the rest.
What though I met my father's fate! I am sure I could not die
In nobler cause, nor half so great; but, mother, do not cry.
God bless thee. boy! and never may untarnished by thy name!
Let cowards skulk- carve thou a way that leads to endless fame.
'Tis winter now, but when the spring returns, my boy shall go
With me where wild birds sweetly sing And fragrant flowers grow.
To-morrow I will give thee seed of flowers choice to save-
And when we go to Greenwood, plant them round the fireman's grave.
I grieve to see thee, mother, look so very pale and worn;
I would I could restore the rose grief from thy cheek has torn.
How often, when so lovingly you kiss me in my bed,
I cry myself to sleep, and dream I see my mother dead.
But my heart shall bless the fireman and sacred hold his name;
It proudly should emblazoned be upon the scroll of fame.