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.