The flames would not wait, so they burst through the room, And I felt the hot breath of my terrible doom; One last look I gave, but escape saw I none-- The men were off duty, their work being done. * * * * * My cinders together they carefully swept, The Press were indignant, my relatives wept; But I, who have passed to a sphere far away, Am able the blame at the right door to lay. No blame must attach to the gallant Brigade, Overworked and--I’m sorry to say--underpaid; And I fail to discover a weakness or flaw In the rules as laid down by our brave Captain Shaw. No doubt the disaster which killed me was dire, But the whole of the blame must be laid on the fire, Which chose to break out, to its shame be it said, At a time when the firemen had gone home to bed. After the Act. The Act of Sir John had been passed by the State, And the shops were all closed as Big Ben thundered eight; The desolate streets were denuded of light, And only the gin-palace gas-jets were bright. The widow, whose poor little shop was her all, A tear on the shroud she was making let fall. One daughter, upstairs, in the garret lay dead, And another was dying, the doctor had said. Ah! bitter the doom that the widow foresaw-- She was ruined and crushed by the “merciful” law; Her trade was all done with the people, you see, Who only at seven or eight are set free. So her trade had dropped off, for no customers came, She was called on to close in “humanity’s” name; For in England, the land where dear Liberty reigns, If you sell after eight you are fined for your pains. No matter that she by herself did the trade, And had neither shopman nor shopgirl to aid; The law of the Lubbock had settled her fate, A widow mayn’t work for herself after eight. To the butcher in debt, to the baker as well, How the rent would be met the poor soul couldn’t tell, And she thought, with a feeling of terror and dread, Of the funeral bill for the child who lay dead. Not a coin in the till, and to-morrow--O God!-- To be laid with her darling at rest ’neath the sod, To have passed from a land where the fanatics rave, And free Britons load with the chains of the slave! Ha! a customer comes with her purse in her hand-- She wants this, she wants that. But the law of the land Forbids the poor widow to sell--it’s too late; The curfew has tolled--it’s a minute past eight. But the silver is there, in the hand that’s held out; The poor widow weeps--the police are about; But the silver would save her, she knows it’s a crime, But she _sells half-a-crown’s worth of goods after time_.