In the Days When the World Was Wide and Other Verses Part 11

Eurunderee

There are scenes in the distance where beauty is not, On the desolate flats where gaunt appletrees rot.

Where the brooding old ridge rises up to the breeze From his dark lonely gullies of stringy-bark trees, There are voice-haunted gaps, ever sullen and strange, But Eurunderee lies like a gem in the range.

Still I see in my fancy the dark-green and blue Of the box-covered hills where the five-corners grew; And the rugged old sheoaks that sighed in the bend O'er the lily-decked pools where the dark ridges end, And the scrub-covered spurs running down from the Peak To the deep gra.s.sy banks of Eurunderee Creek.

On the knolls where the vineyards and fruit-gardens are There's a beauty that even the drought cannot mar; For I noticed it oft, in the days that are lost, As I trod on the siding where lingered the frost, When the shadows of night from the gullies were gone And the hills in the background were flushed by the dawn.

I was there in late years, but there's many a change Where the Cudgegong River flows down through the range, For the curse of the town with the railroad had come, And the goldfields were dead. And the girl and the chum And the old home were gone, yet the oaks seemed to speak Of the hazy old days on Eurunderee Creek.

And I stood by that creek, ere the sunset grew cold, When the leaves of the sheoaks are traced on the gold, And I thought of old things, and I thought of old folks, Till I sighed in my heart to the sigh of the oaks; For the years waste away like the waters that leak Through the pebbles and sand of Eurunderee Creek.

Mount Bukaroo

Only one old post is standing -- Solid yet, but only one -- Where the milking, and the branding, And the slaughtering were done.

Later years have brought dejection, Care, and sorrow; but we knew Happy days on that selection Underneath old Bukaroo.

Then the light of day commencing Found us at the gully's head, Splitting timber for the fencing, Stripping bark to roof the shed.

Hands and hearts the labour strengthened; Weariness we never knew, Even when the shadows lengthened Round the base of Bukaroo.

There for days below the paddock How the wilderness would yield To the spade, and pick, and mattock, While we toiled to win the field.

Bronzed hands we used to sully Till they were of darkest hue, 'Burning off' down in the gully At the back of Bukaroo.

When we came the baby brother Left in haste his broken toys, Shouted to the busy mother: 'Here is dadda and the boys!'

Strange it seems that she was able For the work that she would do; How she'd bustle round the table In the hut 'neath Bukaroo!

When the cows were safely yarded, And the calves were in the pen, All the cares of day discarded, Closed we round the hut-fire then.

Rang the roof with boyish laughter While the flames o'er-topped the flue; Happy days remembered after -- Far away from Bukaroo.

But the years were full of changes, And a sorrow found us there; For our home amid the ranges Was not safe from searching Care.

On he came, a silent creeper; And another mountain threw O'er our lives a shadow deeper Than the shade of Bukaroo.

All the farm is disappearing; For the home has vanished now, Mountain scrub has choked the clearing, Hid the furrows of the plough.

Nearer still the scrub is creeping Where the little garden grew; And the old folks now are sleeping At the foot of Bukaroo.

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 gra.s.s-land the squatter had Was spoilt by Ross's Ground.

Now many schemes to s.h.i.+ft 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 cla.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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 friends.h.i.+p joined -- And it was Christmas Day.

The Teams