‘The Vulcan Ghost’

Press, 10 July 1987, Page 17

‘The Vulcan Ghost’

Noir the Southern Cross is tony And the tourist pubs are swell. For the moneyed folk like service When they book a grand hotel. Their claim to fame is comfort For that’s tvhat beckons most, Save for the little Vulcan It’s famous for its ghost. The Vulcan at St Bathans Otago Central’s heart, A town bom of gold rush That’s how it had its start. When the miners drifted northward Or shifted to the coast, They left nothing but the Blue Lake, The Vulcan, and the Ghost. Some say that it’s a miner Killed in a fall of earth, Whose soul is seeking passage Back to his land of birth. Some say that it’s a soldier Died at a far outpost, Come back to his home country — And some say there’s no ghost. Some say it’s a saloon girl Who never knew true love, Her restless spirit searching Eternally above. And though the winters freeze up And the summer sunshines roast, Time never seems to alter The Vulcan — or the Ghost. But folk come from all over To bedroom number one, They speak of saucy doings Half in fancy — half in fun. Some talk of icy fingers And many even boast, How in that old-time bedroom They’ve met the Vulcan Ghost. So if you strike the Vulcan And you’re talking to ‘‘mine host,” You can form your own opinion About the Vulcan ghost. When I was there last autumn I drank a little toast, For I believe in old pubs, A good beer, and the ghost.

—Blue Jeans