Hei héiert der déi geschwate Versioun.

 

 

Dem Squatter hu se no an no

Geholl all Dall a Weed,

Wéi d'Farmere sech lues a lues

No Westen ausgebreet.

D'Beamten hunn de Floss vermooss,

Déi gutt, schwaarz Äerd verkaf,

Beim Squatter Black am Feld do sinn

Dem Ross seng Päerd gelaf.

 

De Kapp huet hien sech dunn zerbrach:

Wéi kéint en dee verdreiwen?

De Sandy Ross war wëll entschloss

Op sengem Land ze bleiwen.

Hien huet en Zonk ronderëm gebaut,

Gerued an du geplout,

Eng räich Rekolt all Jor am Hierscht

Belount e fir seng Nout.

 

Déi zwee war' jorelaang verfeind

Der Däiwel war do lass:

De Black huet gär de Ross geplot,

De Ross hien ugeschass.

E Buer doënnen op der Wiss

War op eemol voll mat Dreck,

De Black huet drop all d'Hënn vergëft

A freet sech wéi e Geck.

 

Et war weess Gott eng déidlech Feed

Tëscht Klass a Rass a Glaf;

An trotzdeem huet e Romeo

Säi Julia sou getraff.

A méi wéi eemol konnt een dunn,

Ënnert dem Kräiz vum Süden

De jonke Robert Black gesinn

Mam Jenny Ross do reiden.

 

Ëm Chrëschtdag war de Floss verdiert,

Kee Reen bedeit vill Leed.

Am Busch ass d'Feier ausgebrach

An huet sech ausgebreet.

Vill Woche konnt een nuets gesinn

Wéi 't schaureg-schéin do blénkt —

Den hell erliichten Horizont

Huet wéi eng Stad geschéngt.

 

Den Trampelpad tëscht héige Beem —

Wéi d'däischter Kierchesäit.

A wann de Wand derduerch gefuer

Goung d'Feier meilewäit.

Am Ënnerholz huet d'Feier wéi

E Flënteschoss gekraacht

An op dem Sëlwer vun dem Gras

Wéi d'Klapperschlaang gemaach.

 

Et ass iwwert de Floss gesprong

An iwwert d'Weed gerannt,

Et huet dem Bam seng Kroun entfacht

An d'Hecken all verbrannt.

All Beie sinn am Damp erstéckt

De Beiestack war d'Graf.

An d'Kéi si mat de Känguru'n

Fir d'Liewen ëm d'Wett gelaf.

 

Hellegowend ass de Robert Black —

D'Sonn ass grad ënnergaang —

Duerch d'Grasland séier heemgeritt

Wéi d'Aussies dat sou man.

Bis virun d'Dier dreift hie säi Päerd

A schléit dann haart Alarm:

"De Brand kënnt laanscht de grousse Fiels

Riicht op dem Ross seng Farm.

 

Komm, Papp, schéck Männer bei de Ross,

Hei gëtt et näischt ze don,

De Weess ass alles wat en huet

Fir d'Joer ze iwwerstoen."

"Looss 't brennen," sot de Squatter dunn,

"Wëll besser kéint 't net sinn,

Wann duerch dat Feier, Gott sei Dank,

All d'Farmer ënnerginn."

 

"Géi, wann s de wëlls," sot hien dunn nach,

"Géi bei deng aartlech Frënn,

Mä all eis Männer bleiwen hei —

A komm mer net méi rëm."

"Ech komme sécher net erëm,"

Sot dunn dee jonke Mann,

En huet säi Päerd gedréint an ass

A Richtung Brand gerannt.

 

Dräi endlos Stonne stounge se

Bal blann vun Damp an Hëtzt

An hunn zesummen — jonk an al —

D'Rekolt vrum Brand geschützt.

Dem Ross huet d'Angscht nei Kräfte ginn —

Kee Weess bedeit Verdross,

De Robert Black huet haart gekämpft

Aus Léift fir d'Jenny Ross.

 

Mä wéi eng Schlaang huet d'Feier sech

De Wee no vir gedriff,

Sou ass de Männer schliisslech just

E klengt Stéck Pad nach bliff.

"De Wee ass eis läscht Hoffnung, Jong,"

Sot dunn den ale Ross,

"Well näischt kann d'Feier hale wann

'T bis eemol iwwert d'Strooss."

 

Mä grad an deem Ament koum nach

En däiwelesch, staarke Wand,

Huet d'Flamen iwwert d'Strooss gedriff

An d'Hecken hu gebrannt.

" 'T ass aus, mir kënnen näischt méi man,

De schéine Weess ass drun."

De Farmer jummt seng Klapp ewech,

Voll vu Verzweiwelung.

 

Mä dann op eemol liicht säin Häerz

Voll wëller Hoffnung op,

Well iwwert d'Feier héiert hien

En haarde Päerdsgalopp.

"Mir kréien Hëllef," jäizt de Rob,

An wierklech koum dohann'

Säi Papp, de Squatter, ugeritt

A mat him zwielef Mann.

 

Riicht duerch den Damp a 'rof vum Päerd,

Schnell d'Äermel 'rop gekrämpt,

Si hunn op d'Feier agedrosch

A fir de Ross gekämpft.

Bei sou vill Frëndschaft war et kloer:

Si kruten d'Feier aus.

Si reeche sech zwou knaschteg Hänn —

A Chrëschtdag stoung an d'Haus.

 

 

De Sträit tëscht zwee tockskäppegen, ale Männer — dem Black, engem stuere Squatter, deen net vum Land erof wëllt, op deem e sech niddergelooss huet, an dem Sandy Ross, deen dat selwecht Stéck Land méi spéit legal vum Staat kaaft huet an och net wëlles huet nozeginn — ass eng richteg schéi Chrëschtdagsgeschicht. Si weist, wéi wichteg gutt Nopere sinn, op déi ee sech verloosse kann. D'Feier um Ross senger Farm ass, zesumme mat Dem Véidreiwer seng Freiesch, e Paradebeispill fir dem Lawson säin Talent, d'Liewen am australesche Busch fir seng Lieser gräifbar ze maachen.

 

Wéi den australesche Journalist Bruce Elder et a senger Hommage un dem Lawson säi Wierk esou eloquent ausdréckt: "dee bloen Himmel, déi grell Intensitéit vum roude Buedem, déi ganz Géigend esou enorm flaach [...] Dës Einöd ass vun enger enormer, onerbittlecher Schéinheet. Et muss een se spieren, a se antauchen, fir se wierklech ze erliewen. De Lawson huet dëser Landschaft a senge Schrëften e Liewe ginn, dat méi reell ass wéi d'Wierklechkeet selwer. Hien ass mat Humor u se erugaang, mat Matgefill, mat Léift a mat onbeierbarem Engagement fir déi arem Sai, déi probéiert hunn, dësem Land voll brutaler Erhabenheet eng Existenz ofzetrotzen."

 

(Bruce Elder: In Lawson's tracks. In: Griffith Review 19. Re-imagining Australia, 2008)

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

The feud between two pigheaded old men — Black, a squatter who refuses to budge from the land that he has chosen for himself, and Sandy Ross, who bought the same land legally from the State and who has equally no intention of giving up on his claim — is a wonderful Christmas story, a reminder of how important it is to have good neighbours on whom you can count. The Fire at Ross' Farm is, together with The Drover's Sweetheart, a pristine example of Lawson's evocative descriptions of life in the Australian Outback.

 

As Australian journalist Bruce Elder put it so eloquently in his homage to Lawson's work: "the blue sky, the eye-squinting intensity of the red soils and the flatness of the terrain [...] There is a great, unforgiving beauty in this desert. You have to feel it, drown in it, to make it real. Lawson wrote this landscape into an existence that transcended it. He saw it with humour, compassion, love and an unswerving commitment to the poor sods who tried to eke a living from its brutal grandeur."

 

(Bruce Elder: In Lawson's tracks. In: Griffith Review 19. Re-imagining Australia, 2008)