Oh, I am a simple country lad,
From London just come down,
To tell you the scrapes and narrow escapes,
I had when last in town;
‘Twas market day, I'd sold my hay,
And stood things to admire,
When all at once a chap bawled out,
"Hey Master, mind the fire."
Fire, fire, fire!
Fire down below,
Let us hope that we shall never see,
A fire down below.
I turned me round to ask a lass,
The cause of all this stir,
And if she'd mind to be so kind,
As to tell me where it were;
Says she, "Young man, yes that I can,
Do all that you require,
Just come with me and you shall see,
I'll take you where there's fire."
With that she linked her arm in mine,
And down the street we steered
To some back slum she called her home,
But still no fire appeared.
For a house we peeped, upstairs we creeped,
Three stories high or higher,
In a room we popped, all night we stopped,
But I couldn't find the fire.
In the morning when I wakened up,
My lady-bird had flown,
Not only lass, but all my brass
And watch and clothes were gone;
Bare legged and feet, I ran in street,
My shirt my sole attire.
The women laughed, and the men they chaffed
While I kept bawling, "Fire!"
By some good chance I reached my home,
Half-dead with shame and fright,
And all that saw me and all that know me,
Said, "Spooney served him right."
But the worst wasn't past, oh, it came at last,
I thought I should expire.
Say what you will, I was very ill,
And the doctor said ‘twas fire!
So all you good gentlemen,
Who a-courting have not been,
Be advised by me, don't foolish be,
By all I have done and seen,
Don't miss your ways on market days,
Or stand things to admire,
But avoid back slums, and female chums,
And don't go catching fire.
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