Another bushfire item: The Fire at Ross's Farm

The following poem by Australian writer and bush poet Henry Lawson (1867-1922) is corny but hey, I’m a sucker for that.

A glossary will assist, especially for overseas readers . . .

squatter	Squatting, in Australian history, refers to someone who occupied a large area of crown land to graze livestock. Initially often having no legal rights to the land, they gained its usage, and leasehold title (later by ownership), by being the first (and often the only) settlers in the area.
selectors	Selection referred to "free selection before survey" of crown land in some Australian colonies under land legislation introduced in the 1860s. These Acts were intended to encourage closer settlement, based on intensive agriculture, such as wheat-growing, rather than extensive agriculture, such as wool production. Selectors often came into conflict with squatters, who already occupied the land and often managed to circumvent the law.  This conflict, between squatters already occupying large areas and selectors, registering claims to parts of such areas (often the best parts) resulted in confrontations between the two groups and led to wells being filled in; baits laid for dogs and deadly feuds.
Ross	Sandy Ross, a farmer from Scotland,  selected and occupied a parcel of land to farm, the best part of the grassland occupied by Black, a squatter.  Ross used his selected area to grow wheat whereas Black’s much larger area would have been used for sheep, which required a significantly greater land area.
Southern Cross	Constellation of stars visible in the southern hemisphere and historically a symbol associated with Australia, now present on the Oz flag
Henry Lawson	By the way, Henry Lawson’s verse and prose is sympathetic to the selectors in the conflict between selectors and squatters.  The son of a free selector, he never forgot what difficulties that had meant and in his writings he often referred back to his childhood days on the Lawson farm: “Our selections were pushed back in the barren, stony, hopeless ridges, where old dead trees and stumps to be ‘grubbed out’ were hard as iron—because the black soil flats, taken up by early pioneer squatters were barred to us. We were really trespassers if we crossed the flats for a billy of water from the ‘crick’.”

'The Fire at Ross's Farm", by Pro Hart

The Fire At Ross's Farm

- Henry Lawson

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.