Test by Fire

The rush of a hundred volunteer fire-fighters recently to the defence of homes in peril in the hills district illustrates again the truth that the threat of disaster by fire awakens quicker than almost anything else man’s innate altruism and the spirit of true neighbourliness.

A roarin’, ragin’ bush-fire is a humanisin’
thing—
(So old George Jones, he says). They
hears the fire-bell ring,
Or word comes of a threatened home
where flames in fury rave;
An’ it might be ole Ned Kelly’s, but the
urge is all to save.
Hard feelin’s is forgotten; “Love thy
neighbor” is the text;
An’ it ain’t no game of give-an’-take in
case it’s your home next.
For coves wot hasn’t got a house or any-
thing to lose,
They toils away like Trojans till they’re
sizzlin’ in their shoes.

Reminds me of one summer time up here
when ole Bill Brown
Had got hisself unpopular thro’ takin’
people down.
There ain’t a neighbor in the mount with
wot he ain’t had rows
’Count of some deal in Berkshire pigs, or
else a deal in cows.
Seems like that no man’s hand would stir
to aid a man like that.
We had bitter thoughts about him—most
a-spesh’ly Bandy Matt.
We calls Bill Brown for everythink—a
sharper, an’ a liar—
Then someone comes a-gallopin’ with
tidin’s of the fire.

Seems like the wind had turned it, an’
the flames was racin’ down
Fair in a bee-line for the home of bad Bill
Brown.

Nobody waits to say goodbye or grab a
coat or hat;
For we all makes tracks, an’ pronto—
most a-spesh’ly Bandy Matt.
We beats an’ burns, an’ burns an’ beats
five solid hour or more,
Till our mouths was like a lime-kiln an’
our clobber scorched an’ tore.
An’, by the time Brown’s house was
saved, we all was pretty flat—
Fair down an’ out an’ done for—most
a-spesh’ly Bandy Matt.

Then Brown come out with tea an’ meat,
an’ thanks for wot we done;
While the tears—from smoke, or some-
think—down his silly whiskers run.
But we just says, “Oh, rubbidge, Bill! A
man can scarce do less than that.”
An’ we treats him all reel friendly—most
a-spesh’ly Bandy Matt.
Which goes to show, jist like I says, there
ain’t the smallest doubt
You never know a man to rights till hurry
calls go out—
(So old George Jones, he says)—or else
the fire-bells ring,
An’ a roarin’, ragin’ bush-fire is a
humanisin’ thing.