Well for something radically different to my previous posts, here is some poetry for you. But not just ANY poetry. Oh no. This one happens to be written about the tiny town of Gumeracha, in the Adelaide Hills. In amongst the letters, diaries and other ephemera of my great great grandmother Phebe Randell (nee Robbins) was a book of poems, presumably ones she liked and wrote down. One that was not in that book, but is in her handwriting is one called “When the coach comes in”. She isn’t the author of this poem, that honour goes to L.S.M., the initials on the bottom of it. Unfortunately I do not know who L.S.M. is, but I would have to say was a local at the time, and at a guess that would be in the late 1800s, or early 1900s. While the original is quite readable, I have transcribed it here for you … When the Coach Comes In Come, all you jolly Gumerachs and listen to my rhyme, It’s all about the good old coach that rumbles in to time, The coach, my boys, that brings the mail from town and visitors. Oh you’ve been often there to see the ladies all get down. When the coach comes in, when the coach comes in. The ladies all get down, when the coach come in. When the coach comes rolling in, there stands Moffatt for the bags, And he takes them with a catch, and the coach it never flags, But it rattles down the hill for the horses know full well They are near the termination, that means a jolly spell. When the coach comes in, when the coach comes in. It means a jolly spell, when the...