In the Days When the World Was Wide [26]
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.
The Teams
A cloud of dust on the long white road, And the teams go creeping on Inch by inch with the weary load; And by the power of the green-hide goad The distant goal is won.
With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust, And necks to the yokes bent low, The beasts are pulling as bullocks must; And the shining tires might almost rust While the spokes are turning slow.
With face half-hid 'neath a broad-brimmed hat That shades from the heat's white waves, And shouldered whip with its green-hide plait, The driver plods with a gait like that Of his weary, patient slaves.
He wipes his brow, for the day is hot, And spits to the left with spite; He shouts at `Bally', and flicks at `Scot', And raises dust from the back of `Spot', And spits to the dusty right.
He'll sometimes pause as a thing of form In front of a settler's door, And ask for a drink, and remark `It's warm, Or say `There's signs of a thunder-storm'; But he seldom utters more.
But the rains are heavy on roads like these; And, fronting his lonely home, For weeks together the settler sees The teams bogged down to the axletrees,
Or ploughing the sodden loam.
And then when the roads are at their worst, The bushman's children hear The cruel blows of the whips reversed While bullocks pull as their hearts would burst, And bellow with pain and fear.
And thus with little of joy or rest Are the long, long journeys done; And thus -- 'tis a cruel war at the best -- Is distance fought in the mighty West, And the lonely battles won.
Cameron's Heart
The diggings were just in their glory when Alister Cameron came, With recommendations, he told me, from friends and a parson `at hame'; He read me his recommendations -- he called them a part of his plant
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.
The Teams
A cloud of dust on the long white road, And the teams go creeping on Inch by inch with the weary load; And by the power of the green-hide goad The distant goal is won.
With eyes half-shut to the blinding dust, And necks to the yokes bent low, The beasts are pulling as bullocks must; And the shining tires might almost rust While the spokes are turning slow.
With face half-hid 'neath a broad-brimmed hat That shades from the heat's white waves, And shouldered whip with its green-hide plait, The driver plods with a gait like that Of his weary, patient slaves.
He wipes his brow, for the day is hot, And spits to the left with spite; He shouts at `Bally', and flicks at `Scot', And raises dust from the back of `Spot', And spits to the dusty right.
He'll sometimes pause as a thing of form In front of a settler's door, And ask for a drink, and remark `It's warm, Or say `There's signs of a thunder-storm'; But he seldom utters more.
But the rains are heavy on roads like these; And, fronting his lonely home, For weeks together the settler sees The teams bogged down to the axletrees,
Or ploughing the sodden loam.
And then when the roads are at their worst, The bushman's children hear The cruel blows of the whips reversed While bullocks pull as their hearts would burst, And bellow with pain and fear.
And thus with little of joy or rest Are the long, long journeys done; And thus -- 'tis a cruel war at the best -- Is distance fought in the mighty West, And the lonely battles won.
Cameron's Heart
The diggings were just in their glory when Alister Cameron came, With recommendations, he told me, from friends and a parson `at hame'; He read me his recommendations -- he called them a part of his plant