Ballads of Brave Deeds :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Two or three years ago the whole town, or nearly the whole, was burned down. The fire started on a Saturday afternoon in the Hotel. Almost all the folk were on the hills above the town, for it was hot weather. They made for their homes, and began getting their goods out; but someone raised a cry, ‘The dynamite.’

“Everything was abandoned at once. The dynamite was stored in great quantity—enough to blow the whole town to pieces—in a cave under the hill (the hill was lovely, covered with grass-trees), beside the Long Tunnel Gold Mine Yard to the left hand of Stringer's Creek. In front of the dynamite was the gunpowder, and in front of that, just outside the cave, a quantity of dry wood.

“Had an explosion taken place the quartz battery and most of the workings must have been destroyed, and Walhalla would have ceased to exist.

“One lad, young Rawson—I believe his Christian name was George—about seventeen years old, thought of that, and made straight for the cave, taking with him an armful of old sacks which he dipped in the Creek as he went. The wood was just kindling as he reached it, and he stood there beating the flames out until the risk was over.”

“My informant adds:—“Australians often have to fight fire, but not with the added danger which young Rawson faced. His mother told me the story, which was confirmed by others, whom I questioned. He met with no special recognition of his courage; was given a good ‘billet’ in the mines, that was all.”

Men say that in the Twilight of the Gods
Great Odin, dreaming of a dream, saw plain
How Heaven was opened, sudden cleft in twain,
And while the dwarfs before their stony doors
Made moan in Jötenheim, across the floors
That shuddered as they passed, swart Surtur came
Leading the sons of Fire with swords of flame
To Helheim's drear abodes.

We have no Odin, tho' like dwarfs we stand
Before earth's stony doors, and strive and strive,
With tiny Thor-strokes hammering, to rive
Our way to Asgard, struggling still to find
Those shining tablets, lost and out of mind,
Given to the Father of the Gods, but hurled

To darkness at the breaking of the world,
The gold to bless mankind.

But in our “Hall of Chosen Ones” are still
Men who, tho' all the sons of Muspell come,
Led by swart Surtur, ravaging their home,
Fearless to face the flaming tyrant, run,
And strike with swords that can outface the sun
For brightness—swords of courage, that can dare,
And in Walhalla for their girdles wear
Indomitable will.

Twice in the week
From Stringer's Creek
The jingling horses go;
Last time they came
With news of flame
Of homelessness and woe,
And sitting by his waggon's bale
The sun-burnt teamster told this tale.

One day in seven
Is miner's heaven,

Walhalla, great and small,
Went forth to play
And keep the day,
A well-earned festival;
How glad for weary men to lie
And watch the sun go down the sky!

The fire-bell rang
And up they sprang
The town! the town's on fire!
Roof-ridge to ridge
The fierce flames bridge,
They leap from high to higher,
The whole Creek's torrent would not stay
The fury of their fleet-foot way.

Red glares the sun
As down they run,
The townsmen thro' the smoke;
This woman wild
To seek her child,
That man whose heart is broke,—
His aged mother in her bed
Burnt into ash, his father dead.

Then to the sky
Went up a cry
Above the roar of fate,
“To flight! To flight!
The dynamite!
The flame is at the gate!
Behind the powder barrels stored,
The dynamite! Oh save us Lord!

“A thousand pound
Lies underground,
Within a rocky hold,
To aid the skill
Of pick and drill
That seek ‘Long Tunnel's’ gold,
For gold—Walhalla's bread and pride—
Hides deep in yonder mountain side.”

To far-off height
They sped their flight
As men who race with doom,
The air was stirred,
And fancy heard
Long Tunnel's galleries boom.

Saw home in ashes, mines a cloud
Of sulphurous dust and thunder loud.

But strong and weak
At Stringer's Creek
Have left one lad behind,
A boy scarce known
About the town
Of ordinary kind,
And yet the angels on him look,
His name is written in God's book.

In fire-land bred
He has no dread,
And oft has watched with glee
The flames, beneath
Their flag of death,
Leap on from tree to tree.
Has heard them marching from afar
With noise of drums that roll for war.

From childhood's prime
He, many a time,

Has faced the fiery rush,
And bold has planned
With lighted brand
To save by flame the Bush.
Though all the townsmen take to flight
He'll stay to guard the dynamite.

And well he loves
The ferny groves
That wave o'er Stringer's Creek:
In grass-tree shade
That stream has made
A joy he scarce can speak,
Now not a bird or beast but calls
To save Long Tunnel's mountain walls.

He runs to save,
And in the wave
He dips his hempen flail,
Wet sack in hand
He takes his stand,
Sparks fly like golden hail;
There, at the powder-cavern's door
The dry wood kindles on the floor.

Death in his ears
Shouts “fool!”, he hears,
But nearer hears the flame;
Wood-creatures cry!
The wild birds fly
And mock him by his name!
But still before doom's awful porch,
From fate he keeps death's lightning torch.

No time for prayer,
But time to dare;
Alone he fought the fight.
He kept at bay
The flames all day,
Close by the dynamite.
His name like gold shall ever shine,
For Rawson saved Long Tunnel Mine.

Norsemen I cried,
Across the tide
Where'er your dark ships roam,
Your sons still stand

With sword in hand
To fight for hearth and home,
Bright swords of “courage against odds”
Fit for Walhalla, and the gods.

Walhalla.