  Stockman (Loq.). Wake up, boy! the grass is burning; See the glare across the hill! Flames are nearing the “Flat Paddock,” And the sheep are in there still. Dark you say! Yes, so I think it, Tho’ I see the field of corn; But the lights which flicker thro’ it Are not those we see at dawn. Mount the Arab! Take wet sacking! Wet it must be, mind, not dry; We must save the master’s cattle, If we perish while we try. Ride on faster, you are younger, Tie your horse to yonder tree, Break some overhanging branches One for you and one for me. Never mind the smoke and heat; Do not heed the dead wood cracking, Or the sparks beneath your feet. Beat and blind them, crush and kill them, Till their blackened embers lie Stark in ashes, and around you, One by one in darkness die. See the blaze is growing greater, Now it runs with many a leap To where stand the tall white gum trees, In whose limbs the parrots sleep,— Throws its fiery arms around them; Every bird in terror flies From its home in grief forsaken, Shrieking harsh unearthly cries. Will the wind not turn to Westward, Or those great black clouds drop rain? There was thunder! no, I doubt it, But do listen once again. Now I hear the poor sheep bleating, How they gaze from out the gloom, Who have died the martyr’s doom. Just this moment they were rushing Thro’ the scrub down to the plain, Parch’d and weary. Now returning, They seek refuge here again. . . . . . It was thunder! It is raining, For the cinders, hot and red, Hiss, as cool drops fall upon them Through the branches overhead. Sweetly blows the yellow wattle ’Cross the road and up the lane, But to me the scent is sweetest Of the damp and moist’ning rain. How it plays upon the firewood, With a pattering ceaseless sound, Like some grand and glorious music Sent to soothe the saddened ground. Take my arm, boy! I feel blinded! ’Tis with joy from such a sight. Lead me home. I will thank God there For His love to me to-night. “The Bush Fire” appeared in “The Sydney Mail” (Christmas Number), December 19th, 1896. |
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