TIN

[Maureen K Clifford]

Rough swarthy men in moleskin trousers, tramped the bush, eyes glued to ground.
Swag and pick upon their shoulders, word had spread. Tin has been found.
Seems everywhere was hustle, bustle...in this humble country place,
with almond eyed pale moon faced people, hurrying at frantic pace..

The year was eighteen seventy two when ore traces were seen in drifts
on creek flats at Strathbogie Run. To Hugh Gordon surely a gift.
He recognized the mineral ore that had washed down in flooded streams,
and promptly lodged a claim in town, suspecting he had many seams.

The word was out. From everywhere the people came to stake a claim.
Mostly Irish and Cornish men, who knew the ore and knew the game.
Chinese came out as labourers, to do the fencing, and as cooks.
Most of them treated with disdain due to their oriental looks.

The scrubby banks of Veg'table Creek were soon turned into pristine rows
of market gardens worked and dug by yellow Chinese men with hoes.
Soon fresh produce was growing there, more than enough to spread around
to folk who had the cash to spare, and tin now worth a pound a pound.

A weekly coach run now began thus joining up the neighbouring towns.
Taking tin up to Glen Innes and bringing hopeful miners down.
Eighteen seventy five the year, the same year Ben Marshall was born
and he remains there to this day, his bones now dust , his grave forlorn.

Vegetable Creek had a name change, in a deal some considered shady.
It would be known as Emmaville - renamed for the Governors lady.
No doubt Lady Loftus was charmed that they considered her name fit.
The year was eighteen eighty two .Protests were made. Naught came of it .

By eighteen eighty, oh how big this little country town had grown
Eleven mines were working now, and then another - Torrington.
Then Ottery Tin and Arsenic mine threw wide its doors in eighty two
and shops began to spring up selling everything. And all brand new

Raw calico was used for lining walls at just five pence a yard.
Bark huts and slab wood shanties popped up everywhere, the work was hard.
Iron nails sold for three pence a pound, all Iron shovels were four and three.
There were here things for everyone from horseshoes down to herbal tea.

Ding Chee a happy little man moved there in eighteen eighty three.
A Chinese butcher of renown who always seemed to be carefree. .
A joss house opened in the town. Alas that caused the town dismay.
But it was just a simple temple, somewhere Chinese folk could pray.


The landscape now was turned to waste as miners daily dug for tin
Children and wives were hard at work on winch and windlass bringing in
the bucket s full of earth and ore surrendered from beneath earth’s crust.
All needed to be washed and sluiced through Hopper plates. Ore freed from dust.

Teams of Chinese climbed endlessly, like rats on a Giants treadmill.
They worked the Californian Pumps that brought the waters up to swill
the sluice, that washed the dirt away exposing the rich mineral ore.
Contracted for five years labour. If they should die, there's always more.

Unseen, hidden in deepest scrub, the mari* quietly stood and gazed.
Kamileroi and Bundjalung by wandas* hard toil were amazed.
They saw the scars on Mother Earth, and silent tears they cried for her.
Giggled at the straw gabuggan* mil binggarr* wore with dangling buurr* (see note)

The yuul* that mil binggarr* had grown in rows so straight, bought laughter clear.
The crop so plump and juicy was well watered from the baggay* near.
All greatly feared the wandas* with the guns who hunted biguun* down
and sadly mourned for thinyaay thula*, cut to feed the wii* in town.

Now many years have passed, the mines are closed, the time of tin is gone.
Kamileroi no more walk country. Lost the echoes of their song.
Green Beryl now for wealth is sought, its luminosity and fire
kindles a hope in all who seek it. Lust igniting their desire.

Some do remain who mined the tin, their bones forever buried there.
It was a time of fortunes made and lost, of greed and great despair.
And history now tells those stories. Tales of those who won and lost.
For no participants still live to tell if it was worth the cost.


Each day the tourist coach goes by. Fossickers on the town encroaching.
No paired teams with sweating hides though Cobb and Co's still coaching.
No jingling bits, or cracking whips, or leather harnesses creaking
The stories long will linger on. History worth repeating.

Maureen Clifford © 01/10 edited 07/12



mari - Aboriginal people
wanda - white man
mil binggarr - chinese man
gabuggan - hat
buurr - hair string belt
yuul - vegetable foods
baggay - creek
biguun - pig
thinyaay thula - Ironbark tree
wii - fires


note..To the aboriginals the chinese mans plait appeared to them as a hair string which they made by rolling cut human hair with plant fibre to form string.

[Dennis N O'Brien]

Looks like a lot of research went into this Maureen.
Well done.

[Maureen K Clifford]

Thank you Dennis - and you are right a lot of research went into this one - not something I normally do but the history of these places IMO is amazing and it was actually not far from our property - although sadly I knew nothing of its history then and never visited the place. My loss which I deeply regret

Cheers

Maureen

[Zondrae]

G'day Maureen,
I think I have read this one before but today,with time to spare, I have retread it. You have done a Stirling job with this peace. It reflects more than one side of a piece of history. Well done. Now I am going to read it again. Keep them coming.