Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

The Firemen’s Ball

Vachel Lindsay

In which the music of the Ball imitates the burning of a great building.

“Give the engines room—

Give the engines room!”To be read or sung in a heavy buzzing bass, as of fire-engines pumping

Louder, faster,

The little band-master

Whips up the fluting,

Hurries up the tooting.

He thinks that he stands,

The reins in his hands,

In the fire-chief’s place

In the night-alarm chase.

The cymbals whang,

The kettle-drums bang;

“Clear the street,

Clear the street,

Clear the street—boom, boom!

In the evening gloom,

Give the engines room,

Lest souls be trapped

In a terrible tomb.”

The sparks and the pine-brandsShriller and higher

Whirl on high

From the black and reeking alleys

To the wide red sky.

Hear the hot glass crashing,

Hear the stone steps hissing—

Coal-black streams

Down the gutters pour.

There are cries for help

From a far fifth floor;

For a longer ladder

Hear the fire-chief call.

Listen to the music

Of the firemen’s ball—

Listen to the music

Of the firemen’s ball.

“’Tis the night of doom,”Heavy bass

Say the ding-dong doom-bells.

“Night of doom,”

Say the ding-dong doom-bells.

Faster, faster,

The red flames come.

“Hum grum,” say the engines,

“Hum grum grum.”

“Buzz buzz,”Shriller and higher

Says the crowd.

“See see,”

Calls the crowd.

“Look OUT!”

Yelps the crowd,

And the high walls fall.

Listen to the music

Of the firemen’s ball;

Listen to the music

Of the firemen’s ball.

“’Tis the night of doom,”Heavy bass

Say the ding-dong doom-bells;

“Night of doom,”

Say the ding-dong doom-bells.

Whangaranga, whangaranga,

Whang, whang, whang!

Clang, clang, clangaranga,

Clang, clang, clang!Bass—much slower

Clang……..a……..ranga,

Clang……..clang……..clang!

Listen….to……the……..music….

Of….the….firemen’s……..ball.

II

Many’s the heart that’s breaking,
If we could read them all,
After the ball is over..Old song.

Scornfully, gaily,Slow and soft—in the manner of languorous, insinuating music

The band-master sways,

Changing the strain

That the wild band plays.

With a red and royal

Intoxication,

A tangle of sounds

And a syncopation,

Sweeping and bending

From side to side,

Master of dreams,

With a peacock pride.

A lord of the delicate

Flowers of delight,

He drives compunction

Back through the night;

Dreams he’s a soldier

Plumed and spurred,

And valiant lads

Arise at his word,

Flaying the sober

Thoughts he hates,

Driving them back

From the dream-town gates.

How can the languorous

Dancers know

The red dreams come

When the good dreams go?

“’Tis the night of love,”

Call the silver joy-bells,

“Night of love,”

Call the silver joy-bells.

Honey and wine—

Honey and wine:

Sing low now, violins,

Sing, sing low:

Blow gently, wood-wind,

Mellow and slow.

Like midnight poppies

The sweethearts bloom;

Their eyes flash power,

Their lips are dumb;

Faster and faster

Their pulses come,

Though softer now

The drum-beats fall:

“Honey and wine,

Honey and wine.”

’Tis the firemen’s ball—

’Tis the firemen’s ball.

“I am slain,”To be whispered

Cries True-Love,

There in the shadow.

“And I die,”

Cries True-Love,

There laid low.

“When the fire-dreams come

The wise dreams go.”

But his cry is drownedInterrupting with heavy bass

By the proud band-master.

And now great gongs whang

Sharper, faster,

And kettle-drums rattle,

And hide the shame

With a swish and a swirk

In dead Love’s name.

Red and crimson

And scarlet and rose,

Magical poppies

The sweethearts bloom.

Interrupting with heavy bass

The scarlet stays

When the rose-flush goes,

And Love lies low

In a marble tomb.

“’Tis the night of doom,”

Call the ding-dong doom-bells,

“Night of doom,”

Call the ding-dong doom-bells.

Hark how the piccolos still make cheer—

“’Tis a moonlight night in the spring of the year.”In a high key

Heavy bass

Clangaranga, clangaranga,

Clang, clang, clang!

Clang……..a……..ranga….

Clang, clang, clang!

Listen….to….the….music….

Of….the….firemen’s ball….

Listen….to….the….music….

Of….the….firemen’s……..ball.

III

From the first Khandaka of the Mahavagga:—“There Buddha thus addressed his disciples:—‘Everything, O mendicants, is burning…. With what fire is it burning? I declare unto you it is burning with the fire of passion, with the fire of anger, with the fire of ignorance. It is burning with the anxieties of birth, decay and death, grief, lamentation, suffering and despair…. A disciple … becoming weary of all that … divests himself of passion. By absence of passion … he is made free.’”

I once knew a teacherTo be intoned

Who turned from desire,

Who said to the young men,

“Wine is a fire;”

Who said to the merchants,

“Gold is a flame

That sears and tortures

If you play at the game.”

I once knew a teacher

Who turned from desire,

Who said to the soldiers,

“Hate is a fire;”

Who said to the statesmen,

“Power is a flame

That flays and blisters

If you play at the game.”

I once knew a teacher

Who turned from desire,

Who said to the lordly,

“Pride is a fire;”

Who thus warned the revellers:

“Life is a flame;

Be cold as the dew

Would you win at the game—

With hearts like the stars,

With hearts like the stars.”

So beware,Very loud

So beware,

So beware of the fire!

Clear the streets—boom, boom!

Give the engines room,

Lest souls be trapped

In a terrible tomb.

Says the swift white horse

To the swift black horse,

“There goes the alarm,

There goes the alarm.”

They are hitched, they are off,

They are gone in a flash,

And they strain at the driver’s iron arm.

Clangaranga, clangaranga,

Clang, clang, clang……..

Clang….a….ranga….clangaranga….

Clang……..clang……..clang….

Clang……..a……..ranga….

Clang……..clang……..CLANG….!

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