Poem: Australian Bush Fires At Christmas

This year Australia has been wracked by bush fires for weeks. This is before Australia’s hot weather Southern Hemisphere Christmas. This makes The Fire at Ross's Farm, written around 1895 by Australian poet Henry Lawson, especially poignant.

In this excerpt of the poem a rich farmer (“squatter”) seems to want to let his neighbour (Ross’s) small farm burn. But the squatter's daughter (and his conscience) persuades him, and his men, to save Ross’s farm. The poem evokes the insidious nature of fires and how people can work together to stop them:

"...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.
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.

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 boundary 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 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."

Despite the fires, have a Merry Christmas, especially regular contributors and commenters from around the world.

Pete