Merry Christmas.
My favorite ‘aussie’ christmas poem by Henry Lawson.
THE FIRE AT ROSS’S FARM
The squatter saw his pastures wide
Decrease, as one by one
The farmers moving to the west
Selected on his run;
Selectors took the water up
And all the black soil round;
The best grass land the squatter had
Was spoilt by Ross’s ground.
How many schemes the shift old Ross
Had racked the Squatters brains,
But Sandy had the stubburn blood
Of Scotland in his viens;
He held the land and fenced it in,
He cleared and ploughed the soil,
And year by year a richer crop
Repaid him for his toil.
Between the homes for many years
The devil left his tracks:
The squatter pounded Ross’s stock,
And Sandy pounded Blacks.
A well upon the lower run
Was filled with earth and logs
And Black laid baits about the farm
to poison Ross’s dogs.
It was indeed, a deadly fued
Of class and creed and race
So Fate supllied a Romeo
And a Juliet in the case;
And more than once accross the flats
Beneath the Southern Cross
Young Robert Black was seen to ride
With pretty Jenny Ross.
One Christmas time, when months of drought
Had parched the western creeks,
The bush fires stared in the north
And travelled south for weeks
At night along the river side
The scene was grand and strange
the hill fires looked like lightning streaks
Of cities in the range.
The cattle tracks between the trees
Were like long dusky aisles
And on a sudden breeze the fire
Would sweep along for miles
Like sounds of distant musketry
It crackled through the brakes
And o’er the flat of silver grass
It hissed like angry snakes.
It leapt accross the flowing streams
And traced the pastures through
It climbed the trees, and lit the boughs,
And fierce and fiercer it grew.
the bees fell stifled in the smoke
Or perished in thier hives
And with the stock of kangaroos
Went flying for thier lives.
The had set of Christmas Eve,
When throught the scrub lands wide
Young Robert Black came riding home
As only natives ride
He galloped to the homestead door
And gave the first alarm
« The fire is past the granite spur,
And close to Ross’s farm »
« Now Father send the men at once,
the won’t be needed here,
Poor Ross’s wheat is all he has
To pull him through the year »
« Then let it burn » the squatter said
« I’d like to see it done-
I’d bless the fire if it would clear
Selectors from the run.
« Go if you will » the squatter said,
« You shall not take the men-
Go out and join your precious friends,
But don’t come here again ».
« I won’t come back » young Robert cried,
And reckless in his ire,
He sharply turned his horses head
And galloped towards the fire.
And there for three long weary hours,
Half blind with smoke and heat,
Old Ross and Robert fought the flames
That nearned the ripened wheat.
The farmer’s hand was nerved by fear,
Of danger and of loss;
And Robert fought the stubborn foe
For love of Jenny Ross.
But serpent like the curves and lines
Slipped past them, and between
Until they reached the boundary where
The old coach road had been.
The track is now our only hope
There we must stand cried Ross
For naught on earth can stop the fire
If once it gets across.
Then came a cruel gust of wind,
And, with a fiendish rush,
The flames lept o’er the narrow path
And lit the fence of brush.
« The crop must burn » the farmer cried
« We cannot save it now »
And down upon the blackened ground
He dashed his ragged bough.
But widly in a rush of hope
His heart began to beat,
For o’er the crackling fire he heard
the sound of horses feet.
« Here’s help at last » young Robert cried
And even as he spoke
The squatter with a dozen men
Came racing through the smoke
Down on the ground the stockmen jumped
And bared each brawny arm;
They tore green branches from the trees
And fought for Ross’s farm;
And when before the gallant band
The beaten flames gave way.
Two grimy hands in friendship joined-
And it was Christmas Day.
