THE BUSH FIRE
AND OTHER VERSES
BY
IDA LEE
SECOND EDITION
LONDON
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY
Limited
St. Dunstan’s House
Fetter Lane, Fleet Street, E.C.
1897
LONDON:
PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, I.D.,
ST. JOHN’S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL ROAD, E.C.
TO MY
FATHER AND MOTHER
CONTENTS.
THE BUSH FIRE.
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.
Face the fire and do not shirk it,
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,
Like the stake-bound men we read of
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.
BILL, THE GROOM.
The lights burn in the stable, and I stand in the yard,
Yet thro’ the open window I hear him breathing hard;
They watch the bed in silence where Bill the groom lies still,
For Bill the groom is surely fast going down the hill.
’Twas only yestereven, he made a solemn vow
To catch and ride the chestnut; she stands outside there now,
While he lies crushed and helpless upon a bed of pain;
He will not see the sunset behind “The Ridge” again.
The chestnut’s free and easy, a trifle too thin-skinned,
I know she isn’t faultless, though sound in limb and wind;
But I thought she’d give no trouble, for Bill said he could ride,—
Australian-born he was not, he came from t’other side.
The young ones like to tell us the way they do things there,
And tho’ I always listen (you know that’s only fair),
I wonder what would happen on those great spread-out plains,
If when I rode “The Nigger,” I let hang loose his reins.
When Bill first said he’d ride her, I think I did say “no,”
We told him all about her, the way that she would go,
That she had bucked and thrown us whene’er she’d got the chance.
Bill leaped the fence and caught her, she led him such a dance!
He put the saddle on her, it was not nearly tight,
I ran across and fixed it,—and he rode out of sight.
The hay-shed hid them from me, I watched them ’long the fence,
The mare then walked so quietly, I thought she’d learnt some sense;
I know he’d got his stirrups, and held the reins quite straight,
And sat his saddle firmly as he went out the gate.
I went and fed his horses, and forked their straw all round,
Then something seemed to whisper that Bill was on the ground;
I thought I heard him calling, but when I raised his head
His face was white and fainting, he looked to me quite dead.
I don’t know how it happened; but there! my eyes grow dim,
I helped him mount the chestnut,—and she dealt his death to him.
We brought him in and laid him upon his bed to rest,
And night and day we’ve waited, just hoping for the best,
And done our utmost for him—the family are away,—
The doctor says he cannot see out another day;
Tho’ living’s mostly trouble, my life I’m sure I’d give,
If I could bring back yesterday, and let poor Billy live.
He’s waking now, they tell me, but not for long, poor lad,
If he but had his mother, ’twould make his end less sad.
For years they have been parted, yet strange enough it seems,
Last night she came in spirit to calm his troubled dreams.
They say she is in England, across the ocean blue:
I know she here was watching her boy the long night through.
Don’t say it all was fancy! I’m not a bushman raw;
Bill saw her when she entered, first in the open door,
He followed every footstep until she reached his bed,
And caught her hand and held it, as she stroked his tired head.
And when she rose to leave us, the light, a narrow streak,
Crept underneath the windows, and tears stole down her cheek;
Her face was drooping lowly, it looked so pained and sad,
As once her glances rested upon the sleeping lad.
. . . . . .
He asks about his horses, and wants to bid good-bye
To “Colonel” and to “Captain,” to “Mill” and “Marjorie,”
And even to the chestnut! he says it was his fault,
She only bucked just once or twice, and when she seemed to halt,
He pulled against the bridle, then up she reared in air
And fell right over on him—he lay beneath her there.
Come, wheel his bed among them and turn them in their stalls,
’Tis hard if he can’t see them before his strength quite falls.
They seem to know he’s going—they lick his outstretched hand,
And as he speaks they whinny, the sight is really grand!
But when he sees the chestnut (for in the door she stood),
I never thought a youngster could be one half as good,
He pats her, and he pets her, and strokes her bright red mane;
The beast I’m sure is sorry she’s caused him all this pain
(I do believe I’m crying, tho’ Bill wears such a smile,
He hardly could be wicked with a face so free from guile).
And there, among the horses, he said he heard a call,
Tho’ everyone kept silent and solemn thro’ it all.
His voice once broke the stillness, “That’s not the stable bell?
The angels call me, mother!”—I caught him as he fell;
We did not try to raise him; I saw it was no use;
The horses they were standing, with halters swinging loose,
To watch our every movement: we took his bed inside,
And now I know they’re grieving because poor Bill has died.
WHITE SEA HORSES.
Glad sea horses! Sad sea horses!
Rear the head, and toss the mane,
Spread out wide in bands together.
Face the boundless deep again!
Grand white horses! Stand, white horses!
Just one moment calm and still,
In the bright and sparkling sunshine!
None would dream your wrath would kill.
Great sea horses! Stately horses!
When you gallop still be kind:
Where is strength to curb your fury,
Where are reins your mouths to bind?
Urging onward, surging onward,
Wild your onset, fierce and free!
Proudly rides a ship to battle
O’er the line ’twixt sky and sea.
Wait, white horses! Bait, white horses!
While you don those trappings new;
Now your noble chests are wrapt in
Sumptuous folds of green-fringed blue.
Tall white horses! Small white horses!
Can it be in peace or war,
Thus you madly race the ocean
Till you reach the sand-strewn bar?
Champing horses! Ramping horses!
Mid the roaring, mid the noise,
Ere your fetlocks churn the billows,
Proudly they uplifted poise.
Darting horses! Parting horses!
They have broken loose away,
Flinging far behind their traces,
As they plunge among the spray!
Racing horses! Pacing horses!
When you speed with foam-shod feet,
Does, unseen, some ghost or spirit
Prick your flanks with spurrings fleet?
Vain sea horses! Strain, sea horses,
With the sinews you possess,
Dashing high, above the waters,
Heads which never knew distress!
Fighting horses! Biting horses!
Open mouths and nostrils wide,
Arching necks and tangled forelocks,
Snapping jaws on either side.
Fierce wild horses! Pierce wild horses!
As the ship doth glide along,
They have struck athwart the bulwarks
Blow on blow, dealt loud and strong.
Mad white horses! Bad white horses!
Has the vessel spoilt your chase?
How you turn aside to lash it,
In a passionate embrace!
Splashing horses! Crashing horses!
Soon you frolic left and right,
Angels guard storm-beaten sailors
Who encounter you to-night!