London homes weren't made of bricks
They were made of mud and
Crammed in tight so they would fit
Within the Roman walls they'd sit
All breedin' lice and rats and ticks
They say Tom Farriner went to bed
Tired from all day bakin' bread
Grateful for a little rest,
In his place the maid he left.
One spark the wind caressed,
And fan so bright as if possessed,
It flew an uninvited guest,
Across the room on a fiery
News soon came from Pudding Lane
The Mayor said with some disdain
It's nothing new to see a flame
Too late, much time had passed
The fire had grown and spread too fast
So none could stand before its blast
By the time their blood was
Ludgate, Newgate, Aldersgate,
Flames left streets and people ran away
From the east the wind blew
Conflagration winning all the way
Took days, but the wind turned east
Starved of fuel, it soon decreased
And churches numbering eighty -four
Were burned to cinders, roof to floor
in the flame and the roar
An d with the ash and with the flame
there came a need to appoint the blame
The French and Dutchmen fit the frame
Robert Hubert later cried
He said the blaze, so he was tried
Although the judge thought he had lied
He was convicted, hung and died
Strange it is to note the names
Of the jury members there that day
the same as the Baker men from
Streets and people ran away
From the east the wind blew all the day,
conflagration winning all the way
The baker never bore the blame,
he said his fires were out that day
The maid was first to burn away,
so he lived to bake another
Back in the summer of 66, London
Oatons weren't made of bricks
They were made of mud and
Crammed inside so they would
