On the coast, in the mine, at the fire, in the dark city byeways
at night,
They are ready the waves, or the flames, or the bludgeoning
burglar to fight.
And are _we_ quite as ready to mark, or to fashion a fitting reward
For the coarsely-clad commonplace men who our life and our
property guard?

A question _Punch_ puts to the Public, and on your behalf, my
brave lad,
And that of your labouring like. To accept your stout help we are
glad:
If supply of cheap heroes _should_ slacken, and life-saving valour
grow _dear_--
Say as courts, party-statesmen, or churches--'twould make some
exchequers look queer.

Do we quite do our part, we shore-goers? Those lights could not
flash through the fog,
And how often must rescuer willing lie idle on land like a log
For lack of the warning of coast-wires from lighthouse or
lightship? 'Tis flat
That we, lad, have not done _our_ duty, until we have altered all
that.

Well, you have done yours, and successfully, _this_ time at least,
and at night.
All rescued. How gladly the last must have looked on that brave
"Comet Light,"
As you put from the wave-battered wreck. Cold, surf-buffeted,