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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408789" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Bush Fire</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, better the thud of the deadly gun, and the crash of the bursting shell,<br>Than the terrible silence where drought is fought out there in the western hell;<br>And better the rattle of rifles near, or the thunder on deck at sea,<br>Than the sound—most hellish of all to hear—of a fire where it should not be. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">On the runs to the west of the Dingo Scrubs there was drought, and ruin, and death,<br>And the sandstorm came from the dread north-east with the blast of a furnace-breath;<br>Till at last one day, at the fierce sunrise, a boundary-rider woke,<br>And saw, in the place of the distant haze, a curtain of light blue smoke. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">There is saddling-up by the cockey’s hut, and out in the station yard,<br>And away to the north, north-east, north-west, the bushmen are riding hard.<br>The pickets are out and many a scout, and many a mulga wire,<br>While Bill and Jim, with their faces grim, are riding to meet the fire. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It roars for days in the hopeless scrubs, and across, where the ground seems bare,<br>With a cackle and hiss, like the hissing of snakes, the fire is travelling there;<br>Till at last, exhausted by sleeplessness, and the terrible toil and heat,<br>The squatter is crying, ‘My God! the wool!’ and the farmer, ‘My God! the wheat!’ </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But there comes a drunkard (who reels as he rides), with the news from the roadside pub:—<br>‘Pat Murphy—the cockey—cut off by the fire!—way back in the Dingo Scrub!’<br>‘Let the wheat and the woolshed go to——’ Well, they do as each great heart bids;<br>They are riding a race for the Dingo Scrub—for Pat and his wife and kids. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And who is leading the race with death? An ill-matched three, you’ll allow;<br>Flash Jim the breaker and Boozing Bill (who is riding steadily now),<br>And Constable Dunn, of the Mounted Police, is riding between the two<br>(He wants Flash Jim, but the job can wait till they get the Murphys through). </div><div style="margin:10px 0">As they strike the track through the blazing scrub, the trooper is heard to shout:<br>‘We’ll take them on to the Two-mile Tank, if we cannot bring them out!’<br>A half-mile more, and the rest rein back, retreating, half-choked, halfblind;<br>And the three are gone from the sight of men, and the bush fire roars behind. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Bushman wiped the tears of smoke, and like Bushmen wept and swore;<br>‘Poor Bill will be wanting his drink to-night as never he did before.<br>‘And Dunn was the best in the whole damned force!’ says a client of Dunn’s, with pride;<br>I reckon he’ll serve his summons on Jim—when they get to the other side. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is daylight again, and the fire is past, and the black scrub silent and grim,<br>Except for the blaze of an old dead tree, or the crash of a falling limb;<br>And the Bushmen are riding again on the run, with hearts and with eyes that fill,<br>To look for the bodies of Constable Dunn, Flash Jim, and Boozing Bill. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">They are found in the mud of the Two-mile Tank, where a fiend might scarce survive,<br>But the Bushmen gather from words they hear that the bodies are much alive.<br>There is Swearing Pat, with his grey beard singed, and his language of lurid hue,<br>And his tough old wife, and his half-baked kids, and the three who dragged them through. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Old Pat is deploring his burnt-out home, and his wife the climate warm;<br>And Jim the loss of his favourite horse, and Dunn his uniform;<br>And Boozing Bill, with a raging thirst, is cursing the Dingo Scrub—<br>He’ll only ask for the loan of a flask and a lift to the nearest pub. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Flash Jim the Breaker is lying low—blue-paper is after him,<br>And Dunn, the trooper, is riding his rounds with a blind eye out for Jim,<br>And Boozing Bill is fighting D.Ts. in the township of Sudden Jerk—<br>When they’re wanted again in the Dingo Scrubs, they’ll be there to do the work.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Henry+Lawson">Henry Lawson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=408789" data-title="The Bush Fire de Henry Lawson" data-description="Ah, better the thud of the deadly gun, and the crash of the bursting shell,
Than the terrible silence where drought is fought out there in the western hell;
And better the rattle of rifles near, or the thunder on deck at sea,
Than the sound—most..."></div>
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