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.

Now many schemes to shift old Ross
 * Had racked the squatter's brains,

But Sandy had the stubborn blood
 * Of Scotland in his veins;

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 Black's.

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 feud
 * Of class and creed and race;

But, yet, there was a Romeo
 * And a Juliet in the case;

And more than once across 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 started 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 lighted streets
 * 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 across the flowing streams
 * And raced o'er pastures broad;

It climbed the trees and lit the boughs
 * And through the scrubs it roared.

The bees fell stifled in the smoke
 * Or perished in their hives,

And with the stock the kangaroos
 * Went flying for their lives.

The sun had set on Christmas Eve,
 * When, through 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,
 * They won't be wanted 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,
 * And don't come here again.'

'I won't come back,' young Robert cried,
 * And, reckless in his ire,

He sharply turned his horse's 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 neared the ripened wheat.

The farmer's hand was nerved by fears
 * Of danger and of loss;

And Robert fought the stubborn foe
 * For the love of Jenny Ross.

But serpent-like the curves and lines
 * Slipped past them, and between,

Until they reached the bound'ry where
 * The old coach-road had been.

'The track is now our only hope,
 * There we must stand,' cried Ross,

'For nought 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 leapt 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 the ragged bough.

But wildly, 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.