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The Dopper's Tale
by THE SHOVEL
To Lightning Ridge I made my way
Because I heard somebody say
A bloke could make a million there
How cool to be a millionaire
I still had some credit in my card
I'm nobody's fool; I'd listen hard
To all the fellas in the know
Who'd give me tips on where to go
And word around the 'Diggers' Rest'
Was, specking out at Grawin's best
Why, just last week, so it was said
Old Matey found some lovely red
On black. On black; the opal's black
At least, it's got black on the back
But on the front it's red, and blue
And every other colour too
And not just colour; deep inside
Shapes drift like treasures in the tide
Or lovely fish of brilliant hue
Which, turning, turn from red to blue
Or, as galahs in evening sun
Flock homeward, wheeling, every one
Changing as fast as you can think
From pearly-grey to black, to pink
But I digress: I went to speck
At Grawin, nearly had a wreck
On corrugated bends before a
Little township called Cumborah
And pulled into a lovely pub
I found quite shortly was a club
All cypress framed and cypress walled
'Club in the Scrub', the place was called
And everyone was in the know
And every man a mining pro
They bought me beers, took me aside
And quietly showed, with modest pride
The lovely opal gems that they
Gouged from their claim that very day
And, seeing as I seemed specially nice
They offered me each at a special price
And some were pools in a mountain stream
On which the sunlit ripples gleam
Where, gazing down through limpid green
The sandy bottom can be seen
And some, like bushfire, seemed to blaze
Red fire behind a smoky haze
Whilst others were dark as the sky at night
Or soft semi-tones in a sea of white
And though their gems seemed rather small
I quickly came to love them all
And parting from each was so very hard
And then I remembered my credit card
And now a creative turn of mind
Told me 'hedge against opals you might not find'
So, striking the blow whilst the iron was hot
I chiselled each price and I bought the lot
And, though love of beauty's its own reward
I smiled as I counted my growing hoard
Only eight hundred dollars I'd outlaid
'Worth at least double that, in the Ridge', they said
On I went, to the Mulgas Dump, where I
Saw some blackfellas crouched on a heap nearby
And I thought to myself 'They'll be in the know
I'll just get on their heap and I'll watch 'em go'
Now these blokes, though shy, were a friendly lot
And they grinned as I asked them what they'd got
Then they pulled out the loveliest bits of green
Which were prettier far than the stuff I'd seen
In the sun on the dump they fairly blazed
I just stared at their jar for a while, amazed
Oh, parting with that would be just too hard
Thank God that I still had my credit card
'That piece on the grey there's showing red
'There's two carat stones in there', they said
'We should rub 'em and take 'em into town
'We would, if the car wasn't broken down
'Why, we had a jar like this the other day
'Had buyers all begging to let them pay
'But we went to Old Matey's; we'd said we would
'And he gave us a thousand as they stood'
'But we just need four hundred to fix the head,
'And some beers, and a lift into town', they said
So back to the Club in the Scrub we went
Where another six hundred was quickly spent
And I asked, as we wove our way back to town
How I'd go about tracking Old Matey down
And they thought that it probably might be best
If I asked at the bar of the 'Diggers Rest'
Well, the blokes in the pub all scratched their head
'We think that we know who you mean', they said
But every last fella to whom I spoke
Told me 'Not him; nah, Old Matey's a different bloke'
So my hopes of a sale came crashing down
Were there several Old Mateys in the town?
Then which was the easy Old Matey who
Was the one that the boys on the dump all knew?
Look, I'll try and keep this story short
You can guess it from here; I bought and bought
I bought buckets of tailings, and potch and colour,
And every last muggy in Wallangulla
And would have acquired even more, no doubt
But the cash from my credit card ran out
Which disaster was greeted with shrieks of horror
Which rang from Wyoming to past Wee Warra
'Now who will we sell all the cracked stuff to?
And the growing stuff, and the black on blue?
Who'll buy all the side flash ? It's gunna be hard
Without that nice bloke with the credit card'
As for myself, I did a deal
With a bloke for a second hand cutting wheel
He picked out some stones that he liked the best
With my lovely new wheel I could rub the rest
But the skills of the cutter, I quickly learned
Are not to be so very lightly earned
Both carbide wheels were out of round
The worn out bearings growled and ground
And I found that I had to come to grips
With bleeding, triangular finger tips
And I staggered out, looking less like a cutter
Than something a storm had washed down the gutter
Well, the seeds of a doubt had begun to grow
A doubt that I still had the slightest show
Of making the grade in the opal trade
Considering all the mistakes I'd made
And yet, strangely, I now hardly seemed to care
About dreams of becoming a millionaire
And I smiled at my largely unsaleable hoard
Because love of beauty's its own reward
I met with Old Matey one fine night
At the Bore Baths, when Fate felt the time was right
He laughed when I told him my tale of woe
Then he stared at the stars for a minute or so
"You've certainly been quite a bit of a duffer
But then, that's a problem a lot of us suffer
The sound of you, now that you've come your cropper
I reckon you might make a decent dopper
You can give up on cutting, and don't try running
You're honest, but you haven't got the cunning
To take on the buyers, you'd look a clown
In a market as tight as in this town
Look, see me tomorrow; I'll show you some tricks
Set you up with a couple of hundred sticks
And a lamp, and some wax. We'll do some dopping
I'll pay you enough for a bit of shopping"
He was right; most cutters aren't fond of dopping
They love to cut, and they don't like stopping
To light up the lamp to melt the wax
And dop for the fronts, and then the backs
The skin on their fingers is thin from rubbing
And shaping hot wax leaves their fingers throbbing
When Old Matey mentioned he'd found a dopper
I soon had enough work to set up proper
Now all of the best rubs come by me
A quick wash in metho lets me see
The lovely potential of every one
And the second dop tells what the cutter's done
I don't race to dop them, I work quite slow
I study each one for a minute or so
And every new day now, I thank the Lord
That love of beauty's its own reward
And I'm happy: I live in a little shed
With a barbecue fireplace and shearer's bed
I don't care if I'm rich: I don't feel poor
I feed beautiful parrots at my front door
I don't visit the Bank: it'd be too hard
To explain what I did to their credit card
And each second Thursday, a Garnishee
Takes a bit for the Bank, but leaves some for me
Ah, love 'em and leave 'em; that's what I do now
They're lovely, but there's always more, anyhow
And you, contemplating this beautiful thing
Which you've bought with your money, and set in a ring
With which you'll propose to the love of your life
Or at least, buy some time with that beautiful wife
Be you baron, or banker, or corporate lawyer
Enjoy, mate, but I've had the pleasure before ya.
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