NO. 15.

AIR.--Oh, Susannah,

The "Old Maid" sleeps in her cosy "crib," around on Chrystie street,
And when the alarm of fire is heard, she's the maid that never was beat,
Let other firemen gas and blow about a fast machine,
Show us the Engine "what's" ahead of our oft seen "Fifteen."
    Oh, Belles of Blazes,
    Ain't you a leetle green,
    When, with your thumbs upon your nose,
You try to pass "15!"
Both day and night we're on the wing a smelling 'round for fires,
For Fifteen's Boys are made of stuff that never faints or tires.
Where e'er the flames are rolling up, and frowning smoke is seen,
The forward men of all the rest, bear on their caps "15."
    Oh, Belles, &c.

We never try to raise a muss with boys of other stripe,
But when they do kick up a fuss, we "lam" 'em with the pipe.
The eyes assume a bluish hue, their noses stream with claret--
Their physiogs, with shapes quite new, looks like a stone-struck carrot.
    Oh, Belles, &c.

When ever we run wid our merchine, we leave a streak behind us,
And whenever we speak with savage "cheek," e'en Mose and Sikesey mind us.
But we'll no longer boast and "swell," but wait until the clapper
Of the Hall bell shall loudly tell "Old Maid" to "rise old napper."
    Oh, Belles, &c.

'Tis then you'll hear our glittering "kear" fast o'er the pavement rolling,
Making a mile a minute, while the fire bell is tolling.
And first upon the ground you'll see the "Old Maid" throwing water,
While other engines turn and flee, or 'round the corners loiter.
    Oh, Belles, &c.