The Fire at Ross’s Farm

Henry Lawson was a contemporary of Banjo Paterson, there are those
who prefer his writing to Paterson's, while I admire both greatly I do
have a preference for Banjo's works

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 squatters 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 around 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 bushfires started in the north

And traveled 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 the pasture broad;

It climbed the trees, and lit the boughs,

And through the scrub 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 scrublands 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 will not take the men….

Go out and join your precious friends,

And don’t come back again.”

“I won’t come back,” young Robert cried,

And reckless in his ire’

He sharply turned the horses head

And galloped towards the fire.

And there for three long weary hours

Half-blinded with smoke and heat,

Old Ross and Robert fought the flames

That neared the ripened wheat.

The farmers 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 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 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.

Written by Henry Lawson