The Fire at Ross's Farm

The squatter saw his pastures wideDecrease, as one by oneThe farmers moving to the westSelected on his run;Selectors took the water upAnd all the black soil round;The best grass-land the squatter hadWas spoilt by Ross's Ground.

Now many schemes to shift old RossHad racked the squatter's brains,But Sandy had the stubborn bloodOf Scotland in his veins;He held the land and fenced it in,He cleared and ploughed the soil,And year by year a richer cropRepaid him for his toil.

Between the homes for many yearsThe devil left his tracks:The squatter pounded Ross's stock,And Sandy pounded Black's.A well upon the lower runWas filled with earth and logs,And Black laid baits about the farmTo poison Ross's dogs.

It was, indeed, a deadly feudOf class and creed and race;But, yet, there was a RomeoAnd a Juliet in the case;And more than once across the flats,Beneath the Southern Cross,Young Robert Black was seen to rideWith pretty Jenny Ross.

One Christmas time, when months of droughtHad parched the western creeks,The bush-fires started in the northAnd travelled south for weeks.At night along the river-sideThe scene was grand and strange --The hill-fires looked like lighted streetsOf cities in the range.

The cattle-tracks between the treesWere like long dusky aisles,And on a sudden breeze the fireWould sweep along for miles;Like sounds of distant musketryIt crackled through the brakes,And o'er the flat of silver grassIt hissed like angry snakes.

It leapt across the flowing streamsAnd raced o'er pastures broad;It climbed the trees and lit the boughsAnd through the scrubs it roared.The bees fell stifled in the smokeOr perished in their hives,And with the stock the kangaroosWent flying for their lives.

The sun had set on Christmas Eve,When, through the scrub-lands wide,Young Robert Black came riding homeAs only natives ride.He galloped to the homestead doorAnd 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 hasTo 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 clearSelectors 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 headAnd galloped towards the fire.

And there, for three long weary hours,Half-blind with smoke and heat,Old Ross and Robert fought the flamesThat neared the ripened wheat.The farmer's hand was nerved by fearsOf danger and of loss;And Robert fought the stubborn foeFor the love of Jenny Ross.

But serpent-like the curves and linesSlipped past them, and between,Until they reached the bound'ry whereThe 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 fireIf once it gets across.'

Then came a cruel gust of wind,And, with a fiendish rush,The flames leapt o'er the narrow pathAnd lit the fence of brush.'The crop must burn!' the farmer cried,'We cannot save it now,'And down upon the blackened groundHe dashed the ragged bough.

But wildly, in a rush of hope,His heart began to beat,For o'er the crackling fire he heardThe sound of horses' feet.'Here's help at last,' young Robert cried,And even as he spokeThe squatter with a dozen menCame racing through the smoke.

Down on the ground the stockmen jumpedAnd bared each brawny arm,They tore green branches from the treesAnd fought for Ross's farm;And when before the gallant bandThe beaten flames gave way,Two grimy hands in friendship joined --And it was Christmas Day.