Waihi Borough Council Diamond Jubilee Booklet 1902-1962


Gleamed the gold on Pukewa,

When moas marked Waihi.

For centuries the outcrop

Foretold a mystery—

Now history.


Deep mystery, till time was ripe

For secrets to be known.

Intrepid men came prospecting,

Locating precious stone—

A victory won.


A victory won, but lost so soon,

The early Digger's woe

The next will be a better one

Yet how were they to know

What riches lay below?


Riches soon to be released

By batteries with a new technique

While Martha's men toiled underground

With promise of a higher peak—

A greater hoard to seek.


The golden hoard deep down the mine

Lay waiting for the pick and blast,

And miners wrestled with the reefs

Till doom its shadow cast—

The peak was past.


The golden peak has long since gone

And fallow lay Waihi.

Remembering all its past renown,

It yet is stirred to see

The barren land in brighter tone—

A wider destiny.



Our fathers, sons and brothers

Won fame at work and sport;

But daughters, sisters, mothers

An unsung service wrought.


So now I sing to workworn hands

Of those who kept each crowded home,

When menial tasks made great demands —

For aids had not yet come.


Dear women of those by-gone days,

Who yearned and toiled our lives to bless,

We here record our deepest praise —

Remembering your dear selflessness. — N.S.C.

The Old Pumphouse

The Old Pumphouse

the Last Remaining Relic of the Famous Martha Mine, Waihi, New Zealand.

Wood Engraving by Campbell Smith.

Waihi Borough Council Diamond Jubilee Booklet 1902-1962
The Old Pumphouse

There it stands

Impassive and idle,

Stark against the sky.

What does it tell

This shell of stone

Piercing into the hollow hill?


It speaks of time and man.

Of scratching and scraping

And digging deep into

The warm blackness of earth.


It speaks of a time

When the seas parted

And land was thrust up,

Of violent shaking

Lifting and turning.

Of earth and fire

Folded deep into deep.


It tells of seeking

And the impermanence of man.

For now it is empty

All endeavour has ceased.

Now there is but

The cry of the bird.


There is quietness upon the hill,

There is the mystery

Of death and dying.

—Campbell Smith.