On seeing and hearing a Greenfinch in Leongatha

by

Francis Duggan

In park in Leongatha by small lake on blackwood tree
I heard a greenfinch singing a bird once familiar to me
And there was no mistaking to whom the voice belong
A once familiar songster I knew him by his song.

Introduced in this country and their numbers only few
With the aid of binoculars I had a close up view
Of a young male in breeding plumage a lighter shade of green
It had been awhile a year maybe since one of his kind I had seen.

Quite different to the goldfinches who seem in plentiful supply
The greenfinches look plainer and of humans they are shy
Amongst all of the greenery they do seem hard to see
But their song distinct from others a clue to their identity.

I can recall male greenfinches in their strange courtship display
Flying high above the hedgerows in a country far away
And as they flew they twittered as they tried to attract a mate
And the memory of such beauty does not have a use by date.

In Leongatha in a park there on blackwood tree by a small lake
I see and heard a greenfinch singing a bird one hardly could mistake
On a mild evening in December underneath a cloudy sky
And a thing of natural beauty is always a thing of joy.

---

His name not even mentioned

by

Francis Duggan

life's so called losers hardly matter that's what government
ministers think
The poor bloke found dead on the park bench was addicted to alcoholic drink
His remains discovered by a jogger but they never told us why
He did not have a home for shelter or a bed on which to lie?

No they never told us anything about the poor bloke's life
If he had ever fathered children or if he had ever had a wife,
If he had a happy childhood if he knew his mum and dad
Or if he was a lone child or if siblings he'd had?

On page five of the local paper an insertion measuring a square inch
Stated a man in his mid forties found dead on a park bench
His name not even mentioned as if he did not count at all
His contribution to society was seen to be too small.

The night was cold and windy he was frozen to the bone
And without a roof for shelter he was left to die alone
All in the depths of Winter in weather most severe
A victim of the elements in the coldest time of year.

His death all but went unnoticed he barely made the local news
And he has been discredited as one who liked his booze
Still he was not a criminal just his own worst enemy
And many of the rich and famous as people not as good as he.

---

On receiving a phone call from Jimmy Sullivan

by

Francis Duggan

It had been a few years since I last heard from Jimmy Sullivan a friend of mine who lives in Millstreet Town
But very lately early in the morning he gave me a ring for to give me the run down
Of the recent happenings in my old home Parish where I took leave of many years ago
Going by what he had said the changes have been happening and if I returned to there now the place I'd hardly know.

He told me that refugees now live in Millstreet they came from war torn countries far away
As guests of Noel C Duggan at his Drishane Lodge lets hope that some of them will chose to stay
And build their new lives in my old home parish a multicultural Duhallow something new
The introduction of new blood brings with it a new freshness
and Millstreet with new blood could surely do.

He told me of the passing of John Corcoran he played football for Millstreet years ago
And a very well loved and respected lady Mrs Cronin who lived in Minor Row
In Millstreet they will always be remembered and their names as always will be to the fore
Good people never die they merely move on and may they rest in peace forever more.

In Millstreet it would seem that the changes have been happening but nothing in life ever stays the same
In my home Parish I might feel a stranger not many there now I might know by name
It's been said that absence makes the heart grow fonder I once felt homesick for my old home shore
But I have shed all of my tears for Ireland and I don't feel nostalgic any more.

Still a phone call from Jimmy Sullivan is always welcome for news from the old hometown I love to hear
It brings me nearer to the hill of Clara and miles of distance seems to disappear
And though from North Cork and Ireland I live distant my heritage I always feel proud to claim
For I'll always be one who came from Duhallow and a Millstreet man I always will remain.

---

People from a different world

by

Francis Duggan

I met them in the lake park whilst out walking the Universisty Professor and his wife
In their late fifties or maybe early sixties one might say they had seen a bit of life
As we were walking in the same direction we began to chat as we sauntered along
On a warm and breezy morning in December the magpie on the wattle was in song.

He said he was a University Professor and he introduced himself to me as Sam
And he was quick to tell me of his exploits as a decorated soldier in Vietnam,
His hair was dyed dark for to match his dark toupe the signs of age he did his best to hide
And for his age he looked in rather good shape and he had preserved most of his manly pride.

His wife her hair dyed brown looked young for her years she introduced herself to me as Sue
And she had visited the plastic surgeon for she had a face lift perhaps even two,
I thought her to be a bit self conceited she had about her an important air
With them I would not form a bond of friendship for little in common with them I seemed to share.

One might say people from a different world I cannot boast of a University degree,
I've never been a soldier fought in battle but we all are different would you not agree?
With them I struggled for to hold a conversation and they must have found me very boring too
But birds of a feather always flock together and each to their own so happens to be true.

That all human beings do share something in common is something that is open to debate
The Uni Professor and his rather prudish Mrs would never want to have me as their mate
One well might say they live in a different circle and each to their own forever will remain
We were only walking in the same direction and we met by chance but may never meet again.

As we said goodbye they wished me well in parting and them again I never more may meet
They come from south of here a leafy suburb their mercedes by the parkway was parked on the street
The magpie he was piping on the wattle and the sparrows chirping on the sunlit trees
It was indeed a pleasant sunday morning made more pleasant by a warm freshening breeze.

---

Snowball

by

Francis Duggan

Snowball the white silky bantam rooster he does the things all roosters like to do
Amongst his hens in Steve's and Annie's garden he utters forth his cock a doodle doo
The bigger hens they don't seem to respect him though that fact snowball does not seem to rue
He sticks close to his white silky bantams each to his own so happens to be true.

He scrape the earth and leaves by tree and to the hens he cackle but the big hens do not respond to his food call
The silky hens they eat what he's uncovered just like they say one cannot win them all
Then he raises his white head and he gives his small crow as if to sing out this is my territory
He cannot win respect from all of his females but that don't seem to dent his vanity.

His head held high he's a proud little fellow and amongst his silky bantams he stands tall
But the bigger hens are not enamoured with him perhaps for them they think him that bit small
But he do not deny them of his sexual favours and he has fathered chickens to the big and smaller hen
Yet even in the world of a rooster respect a thing one cannot always win.

Snowball is a snow white silky bantam and he struts around the garden looking proud
And he crows as loud as his lungs allow him to but his loudest crow is not that very loud
When he finds food he calls his hens around him though the bigger hens don't respond to his call
But such is life if you're a silky bantam a little rooster whose name is Snowball.

---

So many so called love poems

by

Francis Duggan

So many so called love poems have been written it's so easy for to say that I love you
But few loves last until death do us part and when I say that I mean very few
How any marriages have ended in the divorce courts and how many loves have foundered in a year?
And only bitterness where once were hugs and kisses another love song I do not wish to hear.

You'd swear by some that love was never ending but everything it has a use by date
And very few loves have lasted a decade and fewer still have found a true soul mate
Perhaps I am a cynical old bugger since songs of love don't thaw my frozen heart
They were in love up to last month but now 'tis over and to their friends they say we'd grown apart.

When I see young people hand in hand together and kissing and hugging on the public street
I say to myself their mutual affection will fade quickly when milk goes sour it do not taste too sweet
For love like milk it sours so very quickly and when their love dies they both will find some one new
And they will walk hand in hand and kiss in public and to each other whisper silly words like I love you.

So many so called love poems have been written about so called true love that did not last
Yet we do not learn much from the book of living we only feel bitter about the past
I've seen manly men in tears about their love life though their sob stories I did not ask to hear
And few loves ever last beyond the six months and fewer still even last for a year.

---

Toots Kelleher from Millstreet

by

Francis Duggan

In the late forties and all through the fifties and that's going back in time
Toots Kelleher from Millstreet was in his glorious prime
In the game of gaelic football the great man knew great fame
And through the length and breadth of Ireland his was a well known name.

Toots Kelleher from Millstreet was one of Ireland's best
And he never was found wanting when he was put to the test
The poets and song writers they sung his praises loud
And in Duhallow we revered him of him we felt so proud.

For Cork and his club Millstreet some marvellous games he played
And despite the passing decades the memories do not fade
Of Toots Kelleher from Millstreet fearless in the field of play
A legend in his life time and a legend still today.

Toots Kelleher from Millstreet is at rest forever more
But often in flights of fancy I can hear the mighty roar
Of the Munster final crowd in Killarney when Toots had the football
A memory to cherish and a memory to recall.

Toots Kelleher from Millstreet his praises have been sung
Often watched him play for Millstreet years ago when I was young
Exuberant in victory and gallant in defeat
One who was hero worshipped but never knew conceit.

A champion gaelic footballer we honour him today
Toots Kelleher from Millstreet at peace forever lay
His name will live forever in the history of gaelic football
And the reaper who has claimed him will one day claim us all.

---

The Gray Butcherbird

by

Francis Duggan

I see him very often in Springtime every day
On wattle tree in the back yard in his cloak of dark and gray
You hear him once and sight unseen you cannot get him wrong
The bird with the melodious voice and flute like bubbling song.

In late Winter and through the Spring gray Butcherbirds act quite aggressively
And without provocation they attack for sake of family
And I have often been attacked whilst walking through their territory
And on one occasion one with beak and claws drew a trickle of blood from me.

They build an open nest of sticks on high branch of taller tree
And at nesting time towards their feathered kind they don't act neighbourly
Around his invisible borders the male bird sings all day
And the message in his bubbling song from our patch 'keep away'.

Like butcher who hangs his meat on hooks on thorns they impale their prey
The reason that they are called butcherbirds the well informed say
And at the many wonders of Nature the wonders in me grow
And of birds and plants and animals so little I still know.

On the wattle tree in the backyard I often hear him sing
At daybreak in the morning all through the days of Spring
Familiar and distinctive his song with you remain
And you only have to hear him once and you know his voice again.

---

The coastal suburban woman

by

Francis Duggan

In the cool gray dawn of the morning through the coastal parklands she run
And she goes to the beach in warm weather for a swim and a few hours of sun,
A blond woman in her early thirties trying to make the most of her life
Still single and free of the restrictions that is the lot of the mother and wife.

Her own boss she runs her own business she is one of the self employed
And she rose through the ranks to get this far and she has travelled far and wide
She's picked fruit, waitressed and washed dishes for to get to where she is at today
Self motivated and quite determined she's made it in the hardest way.

Attractive, well dressed and down to earth with great character in her face
And Laughter to her comes quite easy the marvellous gift of life she embrace
Not all business people are snobby as people we tend to classify
And to say that all high achievers are arrogant would simply be stating the lie.

One of the new breed of coastal career suburban women she lives in an apartment overlooking the sea
She jogs in the dawn of the morning and after work just before tea,
She keeps herself fit and eats healthy and she looks as slim as she's ever been
And she looks as young as most teenagers than many of those of nineteen.

She jogs in the cool of the morning in the gray dawn before the sun rise
Along the deserted streets towards the quiet beach before the onset of the traffic noise
A beautiful woman in her early thirties happy and successful in her chosen career
Her type once quite rare on the increase and their numbers multiply by the year.

---

Written in October 2001

by

Francis Duggan

It's been fifteen years I remember and now I'm fifty four
Since I last walked from Millstreet town along the roadway to Rathmore
The fields of Inchaleigh and Claraghatlea north lit by the moon's faint light
And stars shone in the heavens on that November night.

The frostiness of late fall blew in the freshening breeze
And the rustling sound of the dried leaves falling from the road side trees
I was walking for the last time where I had often walked before
Towards my home in Claraghatlea north on the roadway to Rathmore.

The wild cry of the dog fox out searching for a mate
In late fall the strong urge in his kind a family to create
He found his mate and he spent with her three days and nights or four
And they mated in a furzy patch by the roadway to Rathmore.

I could even see the steel cross at the top of Clara hill
And I could hear the familiar babbling of the little Glasheen Rill
But on that night the wanderlust was in me and my thoughts were of a distant shore
As I walked home in the moonlight on the roadway to Rathmore

---

What we do to Mother Nature

by

Francis Duggan

I cannot help but feeling that the arrogance of man
Is in some way responsible for the earthquake that cost thousands of human lives in Iran
The doings of Mother Nature many well might say
But for tampering with her the price is huge to pay.

For what I am about to say I may come under attack
But only recently heavy bombs were dropped in Iraq
And Iraq from Bam in Iran is not that far away
Where the survivors for the dead now grieve and pray.

For human kind another expensive lesson here
This is what happens when man with Nature interfere
On Mother Earth men drop their poisonous bombs from the sky
And to such aggression she angrily reply.

In Bam 'tis said twenty thousand people or more have died
And two hundred thousand homeless and a whole city destroyed
And thousands injured in a huge catastrophe
In an earthquake that has caused death suffering and misery.

And though I may come under a verbal attack
For linking this to the recent bombings in Iraq
And how you see it is entirely up to you
But what we do to Mother Earth to our own selves we do.

---

On seeing the Burns statue in Sydney

by

Francis Duggan

The national bard of Scotland with his plough and pen
And a legend still amongst his fellow men
In the Sydney botanical gardens his statue takes pride of place
His poems and songs and ballads most of the known cultures embrace.

His 'Auld lang syne' to all of mankind belong
The new year anthem is a world loved song
Since his death more than two centuries have gone
But the legend of Robert Burns still lives on.

A major poet one of the finest ever known
And it's been said that the Chinese even once claimed him for their own
He wrote for the masses and in his time was loved and admired
And so many poets by him were inspired.

From peasant stock he rose to literary renown
And like they say can't keep a good one down
And as a writer with the best he rate
And you might say his achievements were great.

In a park in the heart of Sydney with his plough and pen in hand
A statue of the bard from Ayrshire stand
He drank made merry and his brief span enjoyed
And in song humanity and life he glorified.

---

Written in October 2001

by

Francis Duggan

All I see are two ageing power hungry men squabbling for the lion's share
And who will win Howard or Beazley? don't ask me I don't care
The Labor party and the Coalition seem very much the same to me
As neither of them have once promised for to combat poverty.

For the growing scourge of poverty they don't offer any cure
But then suppose not many votes in the favouring of the poor
And not many of the homeless vote when it comes to polling day
But who could blame them for their apathy when they must live in such a way.

When I hear talk of budget surpluses by the major party politicians I feel cause for concern
For who will keep the budget in the black ought not be hard to discern
It's the working poor and the very poor who always suffer the most
And because of neglect for them the Government of their budget surplus boast.

Who will win the Federal Election that won't be worrying me
For whoever forms Government won't be combating poverty
They squabble for the lion's share and seek their own renown
And they only govern for those at the top end of the Town.

---

The birthday man

by

Francis Duggan

In October Brian Murphy turned eighty two though he is one who don't feel old
And in his life of great adventure there's a good story to be told
As a young man he left Skerries in Dublin for Britain and the U S A
And in the tough business of banking to the top he worked his way.

He has travelled far and seen much since his journey through life began
And he is one who has the wisdom of the widely travelled man
Not many countries he has not visited and so much he has done and seen
And he retains some vivid memories of the places he has been

One of the most extraordinary people that I've had the privilege to have met
And he is one I still remember as not a man one could forget
Stories of his life of great adventure he's always happy to recall
And he is generous with his knowledge in him there is nothing small.

Eoin Murphy has turned eighty two but at heart young he remain
And all of the knowledge he has garnered on life's journey he retain
He will be around at ninety and though many of his friends to the reaper gone
Men like him never surrender they just carry on and on.

---

You may be right of centre

by

Francis Duggan

You've often heard it said before each to their point of view
And what is true to one person to another don't seem true
But if your point of view is not discriminatory though in some things we do not agree
Then I will listen to your truth and that's okay with me.

Your views may be right of centre but if you condemn the right wing government who seek an economic cure
By cutting back on social services to the already disadvantaged poor
Then I will listen to your opinions though you seem far more to the right than I
For at least the rights of others you do not seek to deny.

I am far left of centre and you are leaning towards the right
But you seem a good person and in your soul there's much light
You do not condemn the battlers each to their own you say
And in that one I am with you with you all of the way.

You may be right of centre yet compassion for the less well off you show
And I can only nod in agreement when you say for all a fair go
And though we may not agree on many things there is much to like about you
And I will always listen to your honest point of view.

---

John Ferryman and Madeline

by

Francis Duggan

John Ferryman and Madeline are soul mates and where one is the other you will see
And they are two who do share similar interests and they enjoy each others company
John talkative and Madeline more laid back in that way they are different as can be
I'll never understand human behaviour how opposites can live in harmony?

They are both into money making projects and you might say that they work as a team
And John maintain they will be rich and famous he's not a man who is afraid to dream
And they feel positive about their future and they are never short on new ideas
And they are never lacking in endeavour and success is there for those who really try
They've sown the seeds of gain through their networking and the fruits of their success they will enjoy.

John Ferryman and Madeline live in Selby where the mountain ash trees seem to touch the sky
Just uphill from the track of 'Puffing Billy' they often hear the old steam train chug by
They work hard at their projects for their fortune and their hard work for them will finally pay
And they are on the brink of something greater as success from them is not that far away.

---

Written in September 2001

by

Francis Duggan

A reign of terror in the morning sky
As into the buildings the hijacked planes did fly
Trapped people from the windows for help did cry
How come it is the innocents who always die?

A moment of destruction from the air
And an act of cowardice and callousness beyond compare
A despicable act carried out in Allah's name
Though I doubt that Allah condones acts of shame.

When the President vows it's an eye for an eye
One can only ponder on the question why?
How a so called good christian such a thing could say
When revenge won't change what has happened yesterday.

Going by his words revenge will happen fast
But has he not learnt one thing from the past
That when his war planes will bomb cities far away
For the guilty it will be the innocents who will pay.

It has been said that Osama Bin Laden is to blame
But people like him don't have a sense of shame
A billionaire who is consumed by hate
The worst of karma on that man await.

Yet when I hear talk about this big pay back
I think again of what happened in Iraq
Where due to bombings and sanctions more than a million children have died
That country by war has been totally destroyed.

More than a million children since nineteen ninety two
What harm to anybody did they do?
For the guilty with their young lives they have paid
Yet lessons not learned though mistakes have been made.

A callous act of cowardice from the morning sky
And again the innocents in their thousands condemned to die
And when I hear talk about this great pay back
I think again of what happened in Iraq.

---

The poet who wrote these verses

by

Francis Duggan

The poet who wrote these verses is a stranger to fame
It is the first time ever that I've heard tell of his name
Yet in his songs to Nature I can feel the freshening breeze
And hear the songbirds singing on leafy sunlit trees.

The one who wrote these verses not seen as one of note
And the literary critics dismiss him as a very minor poet
And though he never will be seen as one of the poetic greats
His work to me don't seem inferior to Kipling or to Yeats.

The one who wrote these verses they tend to under rate
His love of Mother Nature in beautiful words he celebrate
The quality in his verses not at all hard to see
And he's not a second rater or so 'twould seem to me.

The one who wrote these verses is a local poet they say
And he is one whose name won't live for forever and a day
Yet I quite like his verses his Nature songs are good
And in his rhymes I fancy I hear birds sing in the wood.

---

He was a child of Nature

by

Francis Duggan

He was a child of Nature who for awhile knew fame
A truly marvellous writer Robert Bloomfield was his name
Yet his poems seem neglected and memories of him in decay
Though his literary worth will be re-discovered in the not too distant day.

His great poem the Farmer's Boy made Bloomfield a literary giant when he was in his prime
And that was centuries ago in Wordworth's and Burns time
But nowadays his name is seldom mentioned though in pubs I've heard reciters quote
A verse or two from memory of the late great Nature poet.

Born in 1766 in Honington in Suffolk he was a tailor's son
And he was one who never wrote of battles fought and won
And of kings and queens and prime ministers he was a Nature bard
And like many other poets of his era his life was rather hard.

The Farmer's Boy his greatest poem more than twenty six thousand copies sold
Yet he died a pauper in his fifty sixth year he did not live to be old
He was a child of Nature who for awhile knew fame
A truly marvellous writer Robert Bloomfield was his name.

---

Written in December 2001

by

Francis Duggan

On Osama Bin Laden the net is closing in
His end is nigh and as for his right hand men
Until their final moments they must live in fear
Their hours are numbered and their deaths are near.

To some he is a hero though that's a disturbing thought
For to so many so much grief he has brought
His thousands of murders were for allah some might say
Though I doubt that allah would see it that way.

Osama Bin Laden to allah may kneel and pray
But his hunters getting closer every day
The Northern Alliance are all around him in their tanks
And allah will not save him from the Yanks.

For Osama Bin Laden 'twould seem the end is nigh
And as a man will live so will he die
To karma he has a huge price to pay
And his hunters getting closer every day.

---

The lessons we should have learnt from history

by

Francis Duggan

The lessons we should have learnt from history when the history of mankind we recall
By us it would seem not been noted from history we've not learnt at all
As men still wage war on each other and thousands of innocents die
Not from the cross fire of the warring soldiers but from death exploding from the sky.

And always the poor and the innocent suffer as the numbers of the war dead grow
The surviving poor remain on in the bombed cities as the people with nowhere to go
They don't hold much hope for a future their shacks once their home all destroyed
They are trapped in their cocoon of terror with nowhere to flee to and hide.

In war the wealthy seldom suffer in bombed cities they don't remain
It is the poor without assets or money who are left to absorb all of the pain
The mistakes of the past are repeated and in wars even the so called winners don't win
And war still waged for god and country by ruthless egotistical men.

To the lessons we should have learnt from history not much notice to we seemed to pay
As man's inhumanity to his own kind is still relevant to this day
And always the poor and the innocent are the people who suffer and die
When their homes are damaged or demolished by the odd stray bomb from the night sky.

---

The Coorong Rose

by

Francis Duggan

For the past twenty of her fifty years she's lived in Port Adelaide
And every day in the old Town a new friend she has made
Her nickname is 'The Coorong Rose' from the coastal lands from where she came
And she is one who don't take offence to be called by her nickname.

Her ancestors have lived in this land for sixty thousand years or more
And she is one who don't have ties to any foreign shore
A dark haired woman with dark brown skin and eyes equally brown
More Australian than her you'd not meet in any Australian Town.

In the old Port mall a well known face she's a familiar sight
And she says hello to everyone even to strangers black, brown or white
And she's loved by everyone who know her the smiling Coorong Rose
The woman from the coastal lands where only saltbush grows.

The last twenty of her fifty years spent in Port Adelaide
And every day of every year a new friend she has made
Port Adelaide her adopted Town though the Coorong her spiritual place
And in the old Town by the sea her's a familiar face.

---

Those with great power

by

Francis Duggan

Those with great power at their disposal only listen to what their like minded say
And whether it be for the good or for the bad they do things their own way
But if in democratic countries the voting public on them have gone sour
They get their chance on election day for to vote them out of power.

Those who think that they are always right they never can be wrong
And to admit you did not get it right is a gift to the strong
The power abusers thrive on discord and discord thrives on war
And one might truly say of them that they take their power too far.

They build their reputations by stoking the flames of fear
And their followers only believe what their followers want to hear
For war and human sufferings they blame the other side
And in the colours of their country's flag rest their patriotic pride.

We can help to change the world if we change the one called me
If with people who are different we can show empathy
And if the majority of people felt that way change for the good would come about
And the scare mongers on election day would be those who would lose out.

Those with great power at their disposal their power often abuse
And they spread fear by scare mongering and light the discrimination fuse
Which lead to mistrust and to war and give rise to refugees
Who flee in boats from war torn lands across the dangerous seas.

---

Con the Master

by

Francis Duggan

The meadows smelt of rotting hay for the farmers a disaster
But 'we will live to see the Spring' I'm quoting Con the Master
He scratched his gray head whilst looking towards the hill saying what's the point in complaining
The clouds o'er Clara looking full again it looks like raining.

As Con had predicted we see the Spring and when Winter days were over
the milk cows thin going out on grass gained weight on the lush clover
And the cuckoo's voice was heard again and home again the swallow
And birds were singing all day long on the hedgerows of Duhallow.

Along the slopes of Clara hill the gray fog cloaked the heather
But we'll live to see the Spring he said despite the rotting weather
And Con the Master one who knew he had lived through many a season
And for all of the talk of the hard days ahead he could not see a reason.

The weather settled in mid Fall and stayed fine till December
And 'we will live to see the Spring' those words I still remember
The meadows smelt of rotting hay and the farmers were forecasting disaster
But all of their talk of doom and gloom did not worry Con the master.

---

We'll have a get together for to welcome the new year.

by

Francis Duggan

We'll have a get together for to welcome the new year
And Jill will bring some sausages and John a slab of beer
And David will bring lamb chops and Jean a kilo of sirloin steaks or two
And we will have a sing song around the barbecue.

And Jan will bring some dessert for to have with our tea
And Ian will bring his guitar for to lead in the revelry
And Carol she will bring her voice she has the gift of song
And we'll all join in the chorus and with her sing along.

We'll have a get together come rain or hail or shine
And around the smoky barby we'll sing For Auld Lang Syne
The grub and grog won't cost us that much and the entertainment's free
And Joe will make us all laugh with his jocularity.

We'll have a get together and Jenny will be there
And the beautiful Belinda with blue eyes and golden hair
And foxy haired Jimmy Rucker one quite fond of his beer
A twenty year old who enjoys the party atmosphere.

And Fiveways Dave a happy sort now showing his years in gray
Will join our get together for to welcome new year's day
And we'll eat drink and make merry around the barbecue
And sing farewell to the old and welcome in the new.

---

The woman from Indonesia

by

Francis Duggan

She don't use hair dyes or makeup to hide ageing signs away
The woman from Indonesia her hair is silver gray
A beautiful brown skinned woman of average build and height
And her smile is infectious she seems carefree and bright.

Her husband died in ninety six it's been said that he met with foul play
But that's another story one for another day
She grieved for him for a few years his loving and faithful wife
But she's put all of that behind her and got on with her life.

Her two daughters in their twenties of twenty two and twenty three
But they live in North Queensland and them she seldom see
They keep in contact with her through letter and by phone
yet she don't seem unhappy for one who lives alone.

The widow from Jakarta city is fifty five years old
And she is warm and friendly and in her nothing cold
She has had her share of crosses but she keeps soldiering on
And she is one you won't hear say that her better days are gone.

The woman from Indonesia lives far from her old home
But in hallam in Victoria where she now reside she is well liked and well known
And she makes friends quite easily in her own charming way
The smiling one from Java with hair of silver gray.

---

The Valley that he came from

by

Francis Duggan

The valley that he came from it may seem far away
But he vows he'll be back there to greet the flowers of May
When dark brown dipper with the snow white breast is singing in the rill
And the little brown lark is carolling above the sunlit hill.

He left his parents bungalow when he had turned nineteen
The wanderlust was in him and new places to be seen
In mid April in eighty three with hope in his heart young Joe
Boarded a plane for a new life some twenty years ago.

In the valley that he came from a few have grown more gray
And those born on the year he left now nearing their prime day
He will see many changes there his parents now getting old
And when compared to this southern land the weather there more cold.

When the hawthorn are laden with white flowers and the pink breasted chaffinch sing
Like the restless migrant swallow he will go home in the Spring
For the northern man he always thinks of his homeland far away
And the yearn for home is at it's peak in April and May.

---

Written in January 2002

by

Francis Duggan

The huge bush fires in the blue mountains fire fighters struggle to control
And on wild born creatures the flames have taken toll
Many roos, wallabies, koalas, wombats and possums have met with a painful death
These anti Nature arsonists may they live to regret

The consequences of their action and for their crimes may they pay
And may they remain in prison till they grow old and gray
They have destroyed miles of woodlands and burnt houses down
They must be out of their minds for to seek such ill renown?

Footage of the bush fires in the Blue mountains I have watched on t v
And the blackened desolation a sickening sight to see
And the families who lost their homes deserve great sympathy
Due to the actions of the heartless pyromaniacs they are now in penury.

The bush fires in the Blue mountains will live on in memory
As another tragic episode in human history
For they were the work of arsonists how stupid some men can be
Go lock them up in prison and throw away the key.

---

Jeremiah Joseph Callanan

by

Francis Duggan

He was the great poet who sung of Gougane Barra
And the rill from the hills that flowed straight and narrow
To grow to river Lee as it flow to the ocean
His musical verse is sheer poetry in motion.

For health reasons his ties with his homeland he was forced to sever
And in Portugal his bones at rest for forever
He was a great poet and a marvellous translator
And few were his equal if any were greater.

A hedge School teacher he taught in Cork County as far as Duhallow
But he was one who had other dreams for to follow
The wanderlust in him for distant shores he did yearn
And he left his homeland never more to return

To his old Hometown and the green and leafy wild wood
Where he played with his young friends in the days of his childhood
And the banks of the Lee where he found the inspiration
For the songs that were sung in the old Celtic Nation.

Such memorable poems by his genius created
The beauty of Nature by him celebrated
J J Callanan died young and poor but he left things of beauty
And to write marvellous poetry perhaps his life's duty.

He taught Hedge school in Avondhu, Muskerry and Duhallow
But he was a restless young man and he had dreams to follow
He was a gentle sort of a bloke and generous and kind hearted
And his genius had not reached full bloom when from life he departed.

---

A rhymer from Duhallow

by

Francis Duggan

the wanderlust was in my heart and I had dreams to follow
And I am one who has ventured far from my old home in Duhallow
But each time I hear the blackbird pipe my thoughts afar go winging
To the high wood by Clara hill where I heard his kin bird singing.

The non fishing kingfishers the kookaburras I hear them laughing daily
It's a different world to from where I came from back home near Ballydaly
And yet I love this southern land for the warmth of the weather
The lark don't sing now far away above the snow clad heather

That accent that I brought with me it never will forsake me
It will be with me till the end until the reaper take me
I feel it has not changed at all when heard on the tape recorder
It's roots are far away from here on the Cork and Kerry border.

A migrant in this southern land I'm just one of the many
And I feel happy with my lot regrets I haven't any
And though I've not gone back home in Spring like the migrant dark winged swallow
I'll always be one from far north of here a rhymer from Duhallow.

---

Like many more

by

Francis Duggan

Like many more I have too big an ego I too am shackled by conceit and pride
And I too have not learned much from living though time is definitely not on my side
Some prophets still claim that the meek the Earth will inherit if this be so what chance is there for me
For one who has not learned much from living to happiness could never hold the key.

Like me too many too fond of their own selves and an egoless
person I've yet to meet
And the down to earth person is a rare species a common human frailty self conceit
If there is such a thing as re-incarnation I'd like to return as a dog maybe
A faithful dog who is loved by his master and of any sort of ego I'd feel free.

Each time I attend gatherings and parties big egos all around me I can see
And every one is blowing their own trumpet the same old story I, myself and me
They have me on the defence with some of their questions such as for a living what sort of work do you do?
I feel like telling them mind their own business what I do with my life should not matter to you.

I am aware I have too big an ego and our egos get the better of us all
And there is so much truth in the saying that pride it always comes before a fall
I envy other creatures their pure innocence it is not for ego that the songbird sing
But in the breeding season to defend his borders and that to me seems such a natural thing.

Like many more I have too big an ego a fact of life of which I should not lie
And far too many mop heads like me out there who only think of me, myself and I
In third world countries people dying of hunger and there is war that gives rise to death and misery and pain
And here am I one with a monster ego like so many others out for my own gain.

---

To Amanda Vanstone

by

Francis Duggan

Amanda Vanstone I have heard your new year's message you tell us your government are so kind to refugees
You may fool some but you don't fool everybody and enough is enough of your rhetoric please
Boat people your government sent to Nauru by choice are dying of hunger since you want to send them back to from where they came
They would rather die in detention than be killed by warlords do you feel any empathy or shame?

You do your ruthless and cunning master Johnny Howard's bidding his dirty work you have chosen to do
But Amanda Vanstone you were born a woman and the majority of women more compassionate than you
Why don't you hand in to Howard your resignation and on him that would bring pressure to bear
You tell us all you are a caring person now to us all you prove how much you care.

By telling Howard to find someone to replace you or will you go on living with the lie?
Of telling people you are good and caring whilst Stateless people of the hunger slowly die,
You sympathize with the warders and the medical staff at Nauru but these people do not need your sympathy
If people have to die on hunger strike for their rights it won't say much for your humanity.

Amanda Vanstone tell Howard what to do with his job and for woman kind you will strike a major blow
You have us believe you are good and kind and caring your time has come such qualities to show
If any of those people should die of thirst and hunger your position may become impossible to defend
The mates you thought you had will leave you in droves and Johnny Howard he won't even be your friend.

---

Glen Iris

by

Francis Duggan

On trees on the streets and parks of leafy Glen Iris the mynas sing in the morning sunlight
And flowers are blooming in the suburban gardens and everywhere is looking green and bright
As near a place as you'll find to utopia a poet of this place such great poems could write
And despite the buzz of traffic on the highway nature's beauty fill the senses with delight.

The white backed magpies piping in the sun shine their flute like songs one never could mistake
And on the flowering trees the wattle birds are calling you know them by the hoarse like sounds they make
And white butterflies above the grass are flitting frail things of beauty in the gentle breeze
And the temperatures even in the shade are slowly rising a forecast high today of 35 degrees.

I feel so lucky out amongst such beauty for nature's beauty is a marvellous thing
The distinctive chirping of the noisy miner his voice to it has a distinctive ring,
The flowering gums in their bright red flowers look resplendent and nature's beauty is all around me
And every day we learn from Mother Nature and in her world such great beauty for to see.

The distinctive chirpings of the rainbow lories I could come to this Parkland every day
But I am just a stranger in Glen Iris and from Glen Iris I live far away
Still these beautiful memories I will take with me of sunshine and bird song in January
In Glen Iris the quiet and leafy suburb where song birds sing and chirp on every tree.

---

The fields of Annagloor

by

Francis Duggan

The fields of Annagloor I fancy I can see them when January is blowing her cold and gray
And the banks of the old river looking hoary and dipper don't sing on this January day
And the chirpings of the redwings on bare hedgerows the only sounds of Nature that I hear
Far north of here by those great ancient mountains it is the very coldest time of year.

The fields of Annagloor they look deserted the cattle in sheds now in the farm yard
In the bare fields no grass for them to munch on in the wet ground by cold winds frozen hard,
The warmer days of Spring seem so far distant when the windswept hills wear their white hats of snow
And not a single flower of Nature blooming in a time of year when nothing seem to grow.

The fields of Annagloor I do remember are lush and green when birds sing and nest in May
And dipper in the river he is singing far north of here and many miles away
But Spring gives way to Summer and the Fall gives way to Winter and the river onwards towards the ocean flow
And Mother Nature has outlived the centuries and to the fields the seasons come and go.

The fields of Annagloor are looking hoary and in the farmyard robin he don't sing
Though it won't be long now till the dark winged swallows will fly home to their breeding grounds for Spring
Yet around where I sit the southern birds are piping and there is warmth in the freshening breeze
And butterflies are flitting in the sunshine around the blossoms on the sunlit trees.

---

On the passing of Toots February 02

by

Francis Duggan

A renowned gaelic footballer when I was a school boy
He is now gone to the reaper but his legend will never die
To Millstreet and Duhallow he was a source of pride
And beyond the borders of north Cork his fame spread far and wide.

As fine a gaelic player that ever laced on boots
When Glen Rovers had Chisty Ring in Millstreet we had Toots
He never had a poor game he always played hard but fair
And he was the true sportsman and men like him are rare.

In Cork, Macroom and Coachford I watched him play football
And he always led by good example as I can well recall
A beaming man in victory and gracious in defeat
He more than any other depicted the true spirit of Millstreet.

When I was attending Primary School and that's going back in time
Toots Kelleher of Minor Row was in his glorious prime
From the late forties through the fifties he was one of Ireland's best
And he was not found wanting when he was put to the test.

A legendary gaelic footballer and he too had his day
And with the dead of Ireland Toots Kelleher now lay
From life's trials and tribulations he has found a release
And his sufferings now behind him and may he rest in peace.

---

The bloke from Tarwin Lower

by

Francis Duggan

He's been all around Australia the bloke from Tarwin Lower
From south Gippsland in Victoria to Australia's northern shore
New South Wales, Queensland and the Territory through central and western Australia on down to Adelaide
If he received a dollar for every mile he's travelled a million he'd have made.

The bloke from Tarwin Lower is only twenty three
And without a wife or children of any cares he's free
And he says the lust for wander is very strong in me
And soon I'll leave Australia there are other lands to see.

His prime years fast approaching and time is on his side
And since he left Tarwin at seventeen he has travelled far and wide
And he has worked in all of Australia's big towns and cities, laid pipes and dug out drains
And worked on city building sites and operated cranes.

One who has known the pleasures of women wine and song
In the young bloke from Tarwin Lower the wanderlust is strong
He has been all around Australia and now there's other lands to see
For there's years of great adventure left in one of twenty three.

---

On the passing of Jimmy Cronin

by

Francis Duggan

In the cemetery by Cashman's hill the remains of Jimmy Cronin lay
But his name will live on in Millstreet for forever and a day
A character in many ways and none to take his place
And all around Duhallow his was a well known face.

The passing of Jimmy Cronin awake the nostalgic tears
He coached the Millstreet under age footballers for close to twenty years
In playing fields around Duhallow from Kanturk to Knocknagree
He instilled in his young charges the will for victory.

People like Jimmy Cronin one don't meet everywhere
A character in many ways and his type all too rare
And yet he was an honest fellow he would not know how to lie
A people sort of person and life he did enjoy.

Send off with a guard of honour from the Millstreet G A A
In his beloved parish good memories of the man will stay
His remains to the cemetery in the Tanyard may have gone
But in Millstreet in Duhallow his soul still living on.

---

Inspired by a story that I heard on the radio

by

Francis Duggan

Monarch butterflies were flitting above the smoke
And one of the New York firemen dousing the smouldering ashes spoke
Saying those are the souls of the many who died here
On silent wings to heaven's gate they near.

The souls of those who died on that September day
Towards a better world now slowly wing their way
Of all sufferings and troubles now quite free
For to re-live in love and joy and harmony.

The smoke from the smouldering ashes their souls did release
And they now can live for forever more in peace
In that paradise somewhere beyond the skies,
The fireman wiped the teardrops from his eyes.

On September the eleventh New York's blackest day
When tragedy came to the U S of A
The great Twin Towers by aerial terrorists destroyed
And the souls still live of all of those who died.

Butterflies flew towards the sunlight above the cloud of smoke
And his comrades listened as the fireman spoke
And said those are the souls of the people who died here
On silent wings towards heaven's gate they near.

---

A Doggerel Day

by

Francis Duggan

The raindrops on the rooftop pitter patter
And the wind the leaves on the verandah scatter
On this wild and wet January sunday in the Summer
The type of day the Aussies call a 'bummer'

Today lovers not out walking hand in hand together
One might say this is doggerel writing weather
For to scribble useless rhymes in moments of leisure
Not for wealth or fame but for one's own pleasure.

Just like our image in the mirror is reflected
It has been said by weather our mood is affected
But I for one don't see cause for complaining
And I feel happy even though it's raining.

The neighbour and his wife are shouting at each other
She screams at him I will go home to mother
Yesterday in the sunshine they walked hand in hand together
Perhaps their crankiness due to the weather?

A doggerel day for the old doggerel writer
And in the house across the street now all seems quieter
And tomorrow of love they will be only talking
Whilst hand in hand out in the sunshine walking.

---

You must know God

by

Francis Duggan

You must know god to him have you been talking for according to you death by war god condone
But are you one by sin who is untainted that you should be the first to cast the stone
You say the other side is the guilty party but they see things quite differently to you
And are they not entitled to their opinions for what is true to one to another is untrue?

You must know god you seem so sure of yourself you go to his church every sunday
And with your religious kin you sing his praises and at his altar bow your head and pray
And ask him to watch over our brave soldiers as you call them who shoot to kill in a country far away
And when you pray our good guys will kill all of the bad guys you must believe what our political leaders say.

You must know god when you say your god is the real god which makes you one of the privileged few
And you are convinced you are on the road to heaven and each to their own god you say is not true
But you don't pray for poor war misplaced people and you don't pray for the boat refugees
Who flee from war torn lands destroyed by those you pray for
in leaky boats across the dangerous seas.

You must know god when you say your god is the real god though with your thinking all would not agree
For they too think that their god is the real god and they too pray to god for their war victory
And they like you believe that they are privileged and that all people are not equal in god's sight
But they are wrong even as wrong as you are and like they say two wrongs don't make a right.

---

On hearing of the passing of Mary Cotter

by

Francis Duggan

To have to go back that far in time taxes the memory
For it must be fifty years at least or so 'twould seem to me
Since she courted Jimmy Cotter and then became his wife
And a loving spouse and mother her two great roles in life.

Many of her children in Millstreet still live today
And when I was in my early teens years ago and far away
Mary Looney Cotter a young mother then with a growing family
But since a lot of water has flowed down Finnow on it's way to the sea.

A kind and warm person goodness she did embrace
And she was one who always had a big smile on her face
A role model to her children and one beyond compare
And the Mary Cotters of this world to say the least are rare.

I have heard that Mary Cotter to the after life has gone
But in the memories of those who knew her she is still living on,
She married Jimmy Cotter when I was a young boy
And that was fifty years ago how time just seemed to fly.

---

A farewell to Cliff and Ann

by

Francis Duggan

Cliff Fraser leaves south Gippsland with Ann his devoted wife
He was born and raised his children there and lived there for most of his life
For to help other people he goes out of his way
He has worked for worthy causes and never asked for pay.

He'll be missed in Wonthaggi by all of those he did befriend
For to the Mitchell House community the man was a god send
Well liked and well respected his was a well known face
And his leaving leaves a gaping hole and none to take his place.

He and Ann leave the coast and Kilcunda their future now elsewhere
They are going to Clunes near Ballarat for to make a fresh start there
And Cliff Fraser will be good for Clunes and the Clunes community
For he's a helpful fellow and none so good as he.

A warm hearted person and in him nothing cold
Cliff Fraser is larger than life he has a 'heart of gold'
Wonthaggi's unsung hero in life is moving on
And south Gippsland will be all the poorer when Cliff and Ann have gone.

That the Frasers are leaving Kilcunda is a reason for regret
And that Cliff has helped out many is something one should not forget
And why good people are only appreciated when they leave is beyond me to explain
And what's a loss to south Gippsland to Clunes is a huge gain.

---

There is no such a thing as complete greatness

by

Francis Duggan

There is no such a thing as complete greatness though I recall I've called some people great
For us humans our span of life a brief span and all of us we have a use by date
Our number of heartbeats are not beyond counting the longer you live the sooner you will die
And that goes for so called royalty as well as working class to everybody these words do apply.

We are only flesh and bone and blood and water and we quickly age and go into decay
And Mother Earth to all of us a mother she sustain us and we'll return to her one day
John Shirley the famed poet once wrote of 'Death the leveller' and with his words how can one disagree
The reaper claims the wealthy and the famous just like the reaper one day will claim me.

Some people for good reason are remembered though records of their lives in time will fade away
And life goes on no matter who comes or goes and April it will be followed by May
And August it will fade into September and Winter days will fade into the Spring
And centuries from now at nesting time male songbirds on trees around their borders all day long wil sing.

There can be no such a thing as complete greatness for everybody one day has to die
And in time the longest human life is not a long span the weeks and months and years go quickly by
To the reaper all forms of life are equal and he is not known to respect wealth and fame
He will claim the monarch like he claims the pauper and everybody to him much the same.

---

Parker Clare

by

Francis Duggan

To a forgotten culture perhaps he now belongs
The man who could sing over a thousand songs
The father of the famous poet John Clare
Even in his own time people like him were rare.

The ballad singer of the Helpston countryside
Hundreds of the old songs he sung with him died
So little of the oral tradition now remain
Forever lost not to be found again.

Two hundred years ago one of a dying breed
Poor Parker Clare he could not write nor read
Yet through his son his name lives on today
A memory lost but yet to fade away.

He came from an oral tradition that is forever gone
Yet memories of what was still living on
And at a time when great change was happening in his English countryside
Most of the songs he sung with Parker died.

A fading memory that won't fade away
And through his son his name still lives today
Still a genius in his own right the thresher Parker Clare
And even in his time his type were quite rare.

---

Joe the Dare

by

Francis Duggan

He drives on with his boot down to the floor
At speeds of 180 kilometres an hour or more
And he pass all other motorists as if they are standing still
And he slows little as he drives uphill.

For him it's just another sunday drive
And at such speeds even the luckiest don't survive
He ignores the road signs 'slow down and drive with care'
And he dice with death the one called Joe the dare.

At a tight bend he did not brake and slow
And there the reaper was waiting for Joe
His car left the road and crashed against big tree
And he die there on the highway by the sea.

Just twenty one years on his last birthday
One well might say that he threw his life away
His parents, siblings and his fiancee left in tears
And the grief will stay with them perhaps for years.

He'd used all of his good luck for good luck don't always last
And he was one who loved to drive too fast
And a headstone in cemetery inscribed with a brief prayer
In memory of the one called Joe the dare.

---

Harry Greb

by

Francis Duggan

He was long dead and buried before I saw light of day
And an all time boxing legend so the boxing scribes say
He fought the best of his time Gene Tunney one might name
And he will live forever in the boxing hall of fame.

His bout with Mickey Walker lives in boxing history
And he only fought the very best and none so great as he
The World middleweight champion Harry Greb took on far heavier men
And he did not lose any honour in the few fights he did not win.

He died from a nose operation when he was in his prime
The mighty boxer Harry Greb who had inspired the bards to rhyme
The reaper took him early he do not discriminate
He take the poor souls and the king and he take the boxing great.

I'm not a boxing expert but I can remember well
Around the fireplace as a boy hearing old timers tell
Stories of famous boxers and I can still recall
Them often mention Harry Greb as one of the best of all.

Billy Miske, Tommy Loughran and Tiger Flowers were amongst the greats he fought
And his great bouts with Mike McTigue and Tommy Gibbons excitement to boxing brought
And from the nineteen twenties some great boxers to recall
But Pittsburgh 'human windmill' Harry Greb perhaps the best of all.

---

What is your's you never should deny

by

Francis Duggan

We cannot model ourselves on others for if we are not ourselves we only live a lie
You've got your own ideas and personality and what is your's you never should deny
Some day dream of becoming wealthy and famous but such dreams as we know seldom ever do come true
For the majority of the world's wealth as we too well know will always remain with the wealthy few.

'Tis nice to dream but don't leave your dreams rule you just be the person you were meant to be
There's far wealthier people than you far less happy and some happier than you live in poverty,
'Tis true that wealthy people can be happy though money happiness will never buy
I know one in his sixties he is homeless and he seems that much happier than I.

Just be yourself and though 'tis nice to daydream in your daydreams you never should believe
For you could end up very disappointed when your own self you happen to deceive
Not many people can boast of a million and more than a million paupers for every billionaire
But such is life as has been said by many and everything in life is not always fair.

Like you I should not model myself on others for you are you and I must remain me
And though 'tis nice to admire and to daydream we ought to cling to our identity
To grow wealthy don't mean you will grow happy for happiness don't ever come that way
I know one in his sixties he is homeless and he feels happy and laughs every day.

---

Between Melbourne and Sydney

by

Francis Duggan

Between Melbourne and Sydney the rivalry lives on
A rivalry that will continue though many have come and gone
Since the coming of the colonizers more than two hundred years ago
And Australia's two biggest cities with times passage grow and grow.

The harbour side city of Sydney the more densely populated of the two
But the message from Melburnians is we are better than you
And of course the Sydney siders on that with them do not agree
Between Melbourne and Sydney a long standing rivalry.

Between Melbourne and Sydney there has always been debate
Of to which of them is wealthier the power of wealth is seen as great
And though in Australia's two big cities many live in poverty
Most people do not wish to talk of what they don't wish to see.

Between Melbourne and Sydney the rivalry won't die
And it has not lessened any though the years keep ticking by
But of to which of them is better I would not know or even care
Only know they both have their slums of which I'm all too aware.

---

Beth

by

Francis Duggan

Beth the daughter of the late artist Jack now seeking her own fame
And in the world of literature she builds herself a name
She writes poems and stories and articles for magazine
And she's becoming well known in the Gippsland literary scene.

Beth M that clever person close to her writing prime
And for her literary breakthrough one might say close to time
A matter of months maybe or a year or at most two
Before her writings bring her wealth and fame and all of her dreams come true.

Beth Montgomery the writer is on the roadway to renown
And she's becoming known far beyond the borders of old Wonthaggi town
Her goal is to make a living out of writing that might seem a huge task
But for one of her talent that don't seem too big an ask.

She writes fine poems and stories Beth the rising literary star
And as a freelance writer she is one who could go far,
A level headed person and of her it can be said
That when fame will come to her it will not go to her head.

---

The work resistant man

by

Francis Duggan

The knockers pigeon hole him as the work resistant man
And they say he has never worked and that work not in his future plan
And that he's one of those people who is softened from welfare
Just one of the bone lazy his type are everywhere.

But Mrs Blake the old age pensioner with them would not agree
He built her garden fence for her and his services were free
She could not afford to pay him but he said that is okay
And she will tell you men like him are very rare today.

On old John the octogenarian the years now taking toll
He cannot afford to pay for to mow his grass due to circumstances beyond his control
But the so called work resistant man he works for him for free
And John will tell you that there is no greater man than he.

He works for poor aged people who struggle to get by
And he never asks for money he is that sort of a guy
And though to work for wealthy factory boss not in his future plan
He is not what you would call a work resistant man.

---

Scottish Jean

by

Francis Duggan

She cried out for help in her lounge room she could not make it to the door
But her voice was weak and none heard her and she expired there on the floor
The years and her hard life had sapped the strength from her
last may she had turned eighty four
And she is at rest now forever far south of her northern home shore.

Far from her hometown in northern Scotland old Thurso by the cold north sea
Where she left for the southern country as a young woman in forty three
Fired by the spirit of youth and adventure she would make the most of her time
The lust of the wander was in her and Jean she was close to her prime.

Some women in love are unlucky and one might say Jean she was one
The fellow that she loved and married in forty eight left her with Kenny their toddler son
To her boy she was a good mother and he grew to a noble young man
But he was brought home in a coffin from the killing fields of Vietnam.

I used to meet Jean in the cafe she loved cappucino and cake
And she still had her sweet Scottish accent that accent one could not mistake
And she still retained her great Scottish humor and her I felt happy to meet
And she was a down to earth woman, gentle and kind hearted and sweet.

I never see her sad and lonely about her she had a nice way
And she never wore any makeup or used hair dye to cover her gray
She never did wage war on ageing and she was one who aged with grace
And despite her years she looked lovely she had such a beautiful face.

A heart attack it was that claimed her and 'tis sad to think nobody there
To lift her off of the lounge room floor and to sit her down on a chair
And ring for an ambulance for her so sad her end do seem to me
Yet perhaps her soul has gone to Scotland to her old hometown by the sea.

She was such a marvellous woman and her life crosses she bravely did bear
And she never wore any makeup or used hair dyes for to colour her hair
And having cake and coffee at the cafe she is never more to be seen
But her friends will always remember the one and only Scottish Jean.

---

The ex humble one

by

Francis Duggan

The ex humble one to success heights did soar
And he is not so humble anymore
His new found fame has gone straight to his head
That's what his ex friend Eddy of him said.

I'm only quoting what young Eddy say
From his once best mates 'twould seem he's turned away
He has forged new friendships with the wealthy few
Amazing what a change of luck can do.

Eddy says he's not the bloke I thought I knew
And to his own true feelings he's now true
In sticking by old mates he see no gain
And further success for himself he now attain.

His former mates he no longer wish to know
And apart from them he has only seemed to grow
One well might say he is where he wishes to be
Mixing with the cream of high society.

The ex humble one his true colours he now show
He worked under a boss just a few years ago
But now he directs his own company
And there is none so arrogant as he.

---

The suburbs grow and grow

by

Francis Duggan

To these suburban mountains the seasons come and go
And every year more houses the suburbs grow and grow
And wild creatures their habitat with humans have to share
And many birds and animals once plentiful are now becoming rare.

Humans with them bring their dogs and cats and though well fed they will
Take smaller wild born creatures their instincts is to kill
For dogs and especially cats are predators who on smaller creatures prey
And hard to change true carnivores from their natural way.

In forty years were I to return I'd feel a stranger here
And I would feel so much out of place in a place I once loved dear
For there would be many houses where only trees had been
And far fewer birds and animals in these hills to be seen.

On the suburban highway the cars buzz to and fro
And to the wooded hills above the town the seasons come and go
And were I to return in forty years perhaps the place I would not know
For with the increase in the human population the suburbs grow and grow.

---

Tyre Kicker

by

Francis Duggan

Those who go to auctions to look but not to buy are called tyre kickers and where those words came from I could not even say
Only know if you call someone a tyre kicker respect to that person in words you do not pay
It means he or she are only sticky beaking just there to have a look and nothing more
They just stand quietly in the background watching like statues standing by an entrance door.

Perhaps tyre kicker comes from the would be car buyer for to test the wheel he gently kicks the tyre
And then he offers half of the car's value confidence such people never do inspire
Remember I am just offering a theory for to whom the words tyre kicker might apply
People are condemned because they are onlookers though even of the bidders only one will buy.

The words tyre kicker are used as put down words by those who are not generous and kind
Those who value you only by what you can offer and people like that are not hard to find
Men even found fault with the great one Jesus and was there ever half as great as he?
They tortured him and then they crucified him and nailed him to a cross on Calvary.

Suppose worse could happen to you than be called tyre kicker
since human nature has not changed since Jesus time
For to be seen as a non bidder at an auction to some is seen as an unwritten crime
And some always put themselves before others 'tis our gift of survival one might say
The son of god was crucified by mankind and one like him too would be crucified today.

---

Sachin Tendulkar

by

Francis Duggan

One of the world's greatest ever cricket players if not the greatest of them all
The mighty little general often gets his bat on the ball
And sweeps it over his opponents heads and out into the crowd
And his country's flag are waving and his fans are cheering loud.

The great Sachin Tendulkar is only five foot four
And no surprise to see him bat a century or more
The best of goods come in small parcels he is living proof to that
There is nobody better at using the cricket bat.

You marvellous little Indian the pride of old Bombay
Though I am not a fellow countryman I salute you today
In the face of severe pressure you have remained unbowed
And by the world's best fast and spin bowlers you refuse to be cowed.

A brilliant little batsman in a class of his own
He respects his opponents and respect by them to him is shown
In India a national hero his is a household name
He is a credit to his people and to the cricket game.

Long after he is dead and gone the cricket historians will recall
The champion batsman from Bombay who physically looked small
Five foot four in his stockings and that's not very tall
Yet many will acclaim him as the greatest of them all.

---

John Sing

by

Francis Duggan

On days of celebration when the pipe band played up and down
He beat his drum to Celtic tunes through the streets of Millstreet Town
Scotland the brave, The west awake and the oft played Danny boy
And people standing on the sidewalks clapped as the band went by.

They piped the tunes the old time tunes the Irish love to hear
And John sing beat upon his drum sweet music to the ear
And the young girl on the sidewalk to her mother's coat did cling
Mum who is the happy man with drums is that the great John Sing?

My first memories of John Sing were when he wore the Millstreet green
When he was a star forward with the Millstreet football team
With Toots and William Leary, John Daly and Mister O
When I was a young fellow more than forty years ago.

Just thinking of those happy days bring all of the memories back
When cheers rang out in Macroom park with Millstreet on attack
And Sing as usual doing his bit for glory and Millstreet
Those were the days when Millstreet were the hardest team to beat.

A character with heart of gold and to his own place true
And if he could not help you out he would not hinder you
He worked as a tailor for Mister O and so good at his trade
And the first tailor made suit that I ever wore by that man Sing was made.

With the 'Dago' and and the 'Lefty' he set up the attack
When Millstreet were a football force the memories come back
Of Cormac Dinneen and Brendan Moynihan who mixed it with the best
And Connie Kelleher young and dashing then and now in eternal rest.

Dan Leary and Johnny Keeffe shut some good forwards down
And J J Henchion from Canovee in Millstreet knew renown
And the backbone of the team was Toots he gave opponents hell
And Matt McAuliffe in those days always served Millstreet well.

Mick Cashman and Mick Byrnes take me down the years of time
When I was just a young fellow and Sing was in his prime
The ball came up from midfield and Sing was off like a car
An accurate kick and the cheers rang loud as it sailed above the bar.

The Millstreet pipe band will be out again on Patrick's day
And people on the sidewalks clap as through the town they play
And the favoured colour of the day as always will be green
But one face will be missed from there John Sing will not be seen.

---

Jo

by

Francis Duggan

Her poems are full of beauty of sunshine, birds and flowers
And of the workings of nature she can converse for hours
And as wise and as knowledgeable as anyone I know
A living encylopaedia is the ageing poetess Jo.

She has protested against developers for more than forty years
And the sight of a wombat on the roadside dead to her eyes bring the tears
She says the thought of a world without it's wild creatures is even hard to bear
And there would be far less road kills if people drove with care.

She never mothered children nor to any man was wife
And to write poems about nature is her greatest joy in life
All of the birds that live around her she can even recognize them by their song
And her bond to old Mother earth one might say is quite strong.

In her mid to late sixties she is showing her years in gray
And makeup and anti ageing creams a waste of money she say
Yet she looks quite attractive despite the wear of time
And she must have looked beautiful when she was in her prime.

To anti development protests she travels far and wide
And till the reaper claim her she will be on nature's side
She says the birds and animals own every bush and tree
And with her thinking on that I only can agree.

In the fight to save our Planet she is a leading light
And it is not for fame or fortune that poetry she write
But to pay homage to nature through her poetry she pray
And for her beautiful green goddess she writes poems every day.

---

In Inverloch in January

by

Francis Duggan

On the slated roof of the public toilet the silver gulls bask in the sun
And children in the sea side park are playing games and having fun
And the wattlebirds are calling on a flowering melaleuca tree
In Inverloch in South Gippsland the old village by the sea.

For those in the catering trade at Inverloch 'tis a busy time of year
The fish and chips and pizza shops at their busiest and the publican sells lots of beer
From the Melbourne eastern suburbs in January for the after christmas holidays they throng
To Inverloch to camp for a few weeks where they party all night long.

Yet despite the presence of many human beings it is a common sight
To see beautiful eastern rosellas and galahs in the park in the sunlight
And to hear the migrant lories chirping on the coastal trees
And the white backed magpie piping in the freshening evening breeze.

In Inverloch in January when the summer's in her prime
For the caterers and traders there it is a busy time
And on the spacious beaches many sun bake and families beach cricket play
And children with their parents in the shallows swim and enjoy their holiday.

---

On hearing of the death of Mattie Owen

by

Francis Duggan

He had been dead for a couple of years something I had not known
A citizen of Claraghatlea the man called Mattie Owen
And sad I felt to hear such news his passing caused regret
I knew him since I was a boy and him I won't forget.

His brother Denny the politician was a Minister in the Dail
And Matt too was a popular man as I can well recall
As the manager of the Millstreet mart his reputation grew
And he became well known in the Cork marts and well respected too.

He never owed to anyone and always paid his way
And if there is a heaven his soul is there today
The man has gone from Claraghatlea but the memories remain
And I hope he had a peaceful end and he did not suffer pain.

The passing years bring with them change and time for no one wait
And with the dreaded grim reaper we all must keep a date
But if there is a world for the good a world that's free of care
Then I know of one his name is Matt and he is happy there.

Time has brought change to Claraghatlea that place by Clara hill
But the elders of my childhhood years memories of them living still
And Mattie Owen was one of those his passing caused regret
I knew him since I was a boy and him I won't forget.

---

I feel so disappointed

by

Francis Duggan

I feel so disappointed when I hear the unenlightened say
Of how they support the bombing of cities far away
And as for the poor people whose dreams by war have been destroyed
They say it's their bad luck if they have nowhere for to run to and from the bombs can't hide.

When I am at the local pub enjoying a thirst quenching beer
Some of the loud mouths nearby I can't help but overhear
They boast that we have won the war and from it take great pride
But they never speak of the war homeless or of how many have died

Because of the indiscriminate bombing nor do they even care
Of the sufferings of the war displaced who live with the despair
Of ever again leading a normal life they have little left to lose
Talk seems easy for the uninformed when they are tanked up with booze.

I feel so disappointed with some of the so called educated kind
When for the use of nuclear weapons some excuse they will find
Like we must wage war on terror yet to me that don't seem right
For terror waged on terror is a never ending fight.

I feel so disappointed by those who support war
Suppose talk is cheap when from the destruction one is living far
In war there are no winners though many with those words may not agree
For the price always too high to pay for man's inhumanity.

---

The man from Boherbue

by

Francis Duggan

The robin piped his finest on flowering hawthorn tree
And the wildering flowers were blooming in the fields of Boherbue
And apple tree was wearing pale blossoms of the May
On the day that he left Boher the memory with him stay.

For twenty five years a migrant in south Pacific land
And his mid Duhallow accent some still don't understand
And a migrant in Australia is all he'll ever be
But that don't seem to worry the man from Boherbue.

Twenty five years in Australia he don't use words like 'mate'
And the accent of the Aussie he do not imitate
In Rome do as the Romans do with such he don't agree
The accent that I have he say has always been with me.

He still recall the schoolhouse yard, the ball games he did play
With school friends from his boyhood years he wonders where are they?
The far off hills look far more green some have been known to say
And many went from Boherbue to settle far away.

On the mountains east of Melbourne he lives with his Aussie wife
And their first grandchild was born this year they now are in mid life
And a migrant in this southern land is all he'll ever be
But that don't seem to worry the man from Boherbue.

---

The Rose of Derrinagree

by

Francis Duggan

Memories come to me often from the long lost years ago
When I was close to my prime day of one I visually did know
Blue eyed, blond haired she looked lovely wonder now where might she be
And in her fifties is she happy the once Rose of Derrinagree?

Did she marry and have children, near the Village did she stay
Or did she move to a big city from Duhallow far away
And does she pine as sometimes I do for the beauty she has seen
And is the quiet Blackwater valley in her memory evergreen?

Do she hold some of her beauty or through those blond locks is there gray
Women age and pride take over do she hide signs of decay?
I still have a mental picture and the memory remain
Of young blue eyed, blond haired woman laughing in the wind and rain.

In or near the little Village there's a bright and fresher face
When the rose fade in the garden there is one to take her place,
Time take toll on all things living and time don't give much sympathy
And time will fade the present beauty and give new rose to Derrinagree.

In the quiet Blackwater valley dunnock's voice I still can hear
And the memory come to me from the long lost yester year
When I first saw blond young woman I asked old man who is she?
And his answer I remember she's the rose of Derrinagree.

---

The Pride of Kanturk

by

Francis Duggan

The only one I love lives in Kanturk Town
With hair dark and wavy and eyes of nut brown
Less than thirty yards from where ceaseless waters flow
The murmuring waters of river Allow.

She looks so attractive so charming and sweet
And whenever I meet her my heart skips a beat
Five foot and six inches well proportioned and fair
Is the pride of Kanturk with raven black hair.

And each time I meet her she bids me good day
But a red blushing face gives my feelings away
And I haven't the courage to stop and ask her if she
Would like to come out on a date with me.

The only one I love is free of conceit
She is charming and friendly and a lady complete
And she lives in Kanturk down by Allow side
The darling of that town and Duhallow's pride.

---

It takes every kind

by

Francis Duggan

The good and the bad and the deaf and the blind
To make up this world it takes every kind
The people who only take and those who know how to share
It is a strange world the world out there.

The people who only think of their own need
Of greed and self centredness they sow the seed
And those who to help you will go out of their way
It do take all kinds it's so true what they say.

The thieves, child abusers, rapists and murderers the humans of prey
In the newspapers we read about them every day
Yet then there are those who combat poverty
And they are a credit to all of humanity.

It takes all kinds to make this world of ours
And even in Nature's garden there are weeds amongst the flowers
And suppose human beings are part of Nature too
Amongst every group you will find the unworthy few.

The human world is a rat race so they say
And it takes all kinds it's always been that way
And it do seem sad that the not so bright powerful few
A lot of damage to others can do.

---

In the old Castle Ballroom in Macroom

by

Francis Duggan

Back in the sixties they were in their prime
But women quickly age and lose their bloom
And on sunday evenings they would dance till two
In the old Castle Ballroom in Macroom.

Their faces come to me from years ago
And they would be in their fifties today
The passage of time on their figures show
And they use tints and dyes to cloak their gray.

In the Castle Ballroom they experienced their first love
And in the Castle Ballroom they shed their parting tears
And the hurt of lost first love it lingers long
For weeks and months and sometimes even years.

Some of them settled in their old homeplace
Where their childrens children attend school today
Whilst others took the migrant boat and plane
To live and work in cities far away.

Their youthful beauty in my memory stay
And I still see them dance in ballroom in Macroom
But that was years ago and far away
And women quickly age and lose their bloom.

---

Tell them you are from Duhallow

by

Francis Duggan

To some you may seem ordinary one more face in the crowd
But remember where you came from of your heritage feel proud
And if someone ask you where you come from do not feel ashamed to say
That you are from old Duhallow all of those many miles away.

And if their curiosity gets the better of them and they question you some more
Where is this place called Duhallow never heard of it before
Tell them in North Cork by Kerry border 'tis a grand old countryside
And you are surprised they have not heard of it as it is known far and wide.

Doesn't matter where you come from Kanturk, Cullen, Boherbue
From Millstreet or Newmarket, Rockchapel or Derrinagree
From Ballydesmond or Glenlara or Dromtarriffe or Banteer
Tell them you are from Duhallow and it's a place you still love dear.

Doesn't matter where you come from Meelin, Kiskeam or Knocknagree
From Kilcorney or from Rathcoole places with a proud history
Or Derrygallon home of Pat O Callaghan his great story has been told
A Duhallow hammer thrower he won two Olympic gold.

When it come to social standing you may not rate a high place
And to some you may seem ordinary just a run of the mill face
But if someone ask you where you come from do not feel ashamed to say
That you are from old Duhallow all of those many miles away.

---

The King in Millstreet Town

by

Francis Duggan

I've always thought a king wore the royal ring and crown
But not Willie Corcoran the King in Millstreet Town
I've never seen him wear crown or royal ring
And yet to many he's known as the King.

I have often wondered without finding out
Of how the name he seems so proud of came about
He was not crowned there was no ceremony
Yet is there one more worthy king than he?

For he must be one of the chosen few
He don't insult he try to humor you
He like a laugh and is good to crack a joke
And he is such a very well liked bloke.

The King of Millstreet with royals do not hob nob
And house painting is perhaps his favourite job
But at other things he too can turn his hand
And his services are always in demand.

In Millstreet Town a very well known face
You well might say he is part of the place
Raised in Pound Hill where he is living still
The King of that old town by Clara hill.

A friendly chap he's not hard to get to know
And he always greet you with a warm hello
And though he never wore the royal ring and crown
They know him as the King in Millstreet Town.

---

On the second week of January

by

Francis Duggan

On the second week of January I hear the shrike thrush sing
His flute like notes so pleasant to them have a familiar ring
And Spring is but a memory and Summer near her prime
And that birds sing out of season happens all of the time.

The piping of the white backed magpie his is a familiar song
By their songs Nature's feathered minstrels one cannot get them wrong
A pleasant Summer's morning 'twill make a pleasant day
And the paddocks of Wonthaggi scent sweetly of baled hay.

In a clearing I am standing surrounded by scrub trees
In such places the Aboriginal dancers had their Corroborees
They danced on Summer evenings before the sun went down
Long before there was a Gippsland or a Wonthaggi Town.

A morning on the second week of January with a warm summery breeze
And a forecast high for the afternoon of 25 degrees
One might say perfect weather for the time of year
North in New South Wales and Queensland 'tis warmer by far than here.

On the second week of January the weather warm and dry
And a goldfinch he is singing on a wattle tree nearby
And brown butterflies are dancing in the sunny morning sky
And Mother Nature's natural beauty is for all to enjoy.

---

In May in Lisnaboy

by

Francis Duggan

In clump of grass by thick hedge on her eggs the pheasant lay
And the much more brightly coloured male cucks near all through the day
And the meadow pipit pipes his song as o'er the field he fly
And scent of blossom in the wind in May in Lisnaboy.

In Den Jack's field in rushy patch the day old leveret rest
His siblings not too far away each in a separate nest
Their mother comes to suckle them just after darkness fall
She know exactly where they are when they answer her call

And through the night o'er rushy field the male snipe flies around
He makes a goat sound with his wings above his breeding ground
And lark to greet the sun at dawn pipes in the brightening sky
And birds are singing in the groves in May in Lisnaboy.

The hawthorn trees look beautiful in their blossoms white as snow
And o'er the fields from dawn till dark swallows fly to and fro
And the Cuckoo sing cuckoo cuckoo as she fly from tree to tree
And the warblers and the pipits for her raise her family.

Male robin in the leafy grove is piping vigorously
He tell male robins in his song this is my territory
His mate sits in her cup shaped nest hid from predator's eye
With five speckled eggs beneath her breast in May in Lisnaboy.

The sun burns it's way through the clouds after light morning shower
And wild honey bees on nectar round are flying from flower to flower
And Spring has reached her pinnacle and Summer days are nigh
And the years first butterflies are seen in May in Lisnaboy.

---

To a Clara Skylark

by

Francis Duggan

There's a joyous skylark singing
O'er the slopes of Clara hill
And his pleasant voice is ringing
Through the valley fair and still.

Sing your sweet song minstrel lover
Of this lonely mountain side
Some where nearby under cover
In their nest your children hide.

I was lonely coming up here
But the beauty of your song
Turned my loneliness to cheer
And makes unhappiness seem wrong.

Little sky air borne pleaser
Free of gloom and evil sin
Mind appeaser and heartache easer
Your happiness comes from within.

Amidst the heath bird you were born
And amidst the heath bird you will die
And the blue sky you adorn
With your enchanting song of joy.

I will come back here next sunday
To listen to your pleasant voice
For the splendid music you play
Makes my moody mind rejoice.

Little skylark free of sorrow
High above the Clara heath
I will be thinking come tomorrow
Of your song so quaintly sweet.

---

The Bush Bar Girls

by

Francis Duggan

The girls I knew from the Bush bar where might they be today?
Perhaps some might be living now in cities far away
Whilst some found love with local men and in Duhallow stay
And in the backyards of their homes their children romp and play.

The Murphys Mary and Eileen and their friend Catherine Moore
Where these three women live today can't say that I feel sure
And blond haired Rita Murphy from the road by Mushera hill
Did she find love near to her home and live near Aubane still?

The O Brien sisters from near Rathmore they lived in Millview Lane
They found true love in the Bush bar and the memories remain
Of Breda Tarrant with the sweet singing voice she has a heart of gold
I keep on going back to the past back to the days of old

Nuala Taylor and Kathy Ann her friend were there each sunday night
And Miss Hickey from Millview Lane she seemed demure and quiet
And Noreen Barrett and Mrs Hickey served the drinks they did fine job those two
And owner Sean Gallen and his good wife Ann served their customers too.

Memories of the Sullivan sisters and the Lane girls remain undimmed by time
And the Corkery girls from Clarabeg back then were in their prime
On sunday night at the Bush bar they wheeled around the floor
And when the band played the last waltz they called for an encore.

The Healy sisters from Minor Row were there rain, hail or shine
And the Bush bar was the place to be on sunday after nine
And Connie D and Cassidy danced their wives off of their feet
They danced all night until closing time at the Bush bar in Millstreet.

The Buckley sisters from Cloghoula, Joan Moynihan and Danny Kelleher's wife
On sunday evenings until late the Bush bar came to life
And Pete Lane's band played old Irish tunes the dancers took the floor
And they danced away their cares in life for two hours or maybe more.

Denny and Jerry Kelleher and their wives, Mary Cotter and Paddy Joe
And John Barry danced with his wife heel to heel and toe to toe
And Mr and Mrs Billy Shea their night out did enjoy
And Johnny Hickey and his spouse to dance were never shy.

The Cotter clan were there in strength sisters cousins and all
And Pauline Cleary often there her presence I recall
And the Kellehers of Murphy's Terrace I knew them just to see
And the Sweeneys from Cloghoula still come to memory.

Miss Tucker from Ballydaly than her none quite so fair
She always looked so beautiful with curly light brown hair
And Tadghy Sullivan from Kiskeam and his love and Con Tarrant and Noreen
In the Bush bar on sunday nights together often seen.

The Healys, Reardons, Reas and Twohigs of Murphy's Terrace and the Cronins of Church street
In the Bush bar on sunday night 'twas hard to find a seat
But in the Bush bar of today I might feel out of place
I well may be a stranger there another foreign face.

Jack Baily and his Mrs were working up a sweat
And Den and Mrs Hickey them I never could forget
And the teenagers then in their thirties now and well beyond their prime
For there is never any turning back the hands of time.

Jo Ann Murphy and Anna Kelleher and the Dowlings come to mind
And young Noreen Barrett from Tullig hope life to them has been kind
And Brendy Murphy and his Mrs and the Brodericks of Clara View
And Delia Barrett and Mrs Carroll almost had forgot those two.

The juke box in the small room till closing time knew no rest
And the younger generation liked the eighties music best
Una Twomey and the Greaneys and the Dinneens you might see
At the West end in the Bush bar on a sunday after tea.

Some of them I knew visually and some of them I knew well
And some of those girls of the Bush bar in foreign parts now dwell
And some found true love near to home and in Duhallow stay
And in the backyards of their homes their children romp and play.

---

He was a boy

by

Francis Duggan

He was just nineteen years with a younger teenage brother
Admired by his proud father and loved by his loving mother
But words cannot describe the way that they now are feeling
And the mental wounds of grief the slowest scars for healing.

That he died for his country's flag in the service of his Nation
To those who loved and admired him is of little consolation
Just one more statistic of war he has fought his final battle
And in war young lives are taken cheap gunned down like diseased cattle.

He was just nineteen so young to die his family broken hearted
So young to lay in a cemetery with some of life's departed
To his grave his mum and dad often take flowers till their own deaths they will remember
The son they lost so far away one morning in September.

He was a boy so young to die for patriotic glory
And maybe one day of his life some one will write the story
He did not even have the chance to father a son or daughter
He went off young to die in war like a lamb to the slaughter.

---

The Browns

by

Francis Duggan

When I was going to Primary school in Millstreet my home town
I knew the ageing brothers then Daniel and Jackie Brown
They must have been close to three score the years had made them gray
And still they worked as I recall and sweated for their pay.

The words from the contractors Denis Mac and Paddy Den
Were that the Browns were hard to beat the best of working men
And Denis Mac and Paddy Den were men who ought to know
For great workmen had worked for them back in the long ago.

The Browns worked with fellows half of their age conceding years in time
And with the best could hold their own though well beyond their prime
But time takes care of every one and great men fade away
And the tree five hundred years of age must fall and die one day.

And though feats of men who laboured hard old timers will recall
Their names are never written on the great memorial wall
And time takes care of everyone the powerful and the small
And to the grim reaper how hard you worked don't seem to count at all.

Two of the many great work men from Clara's mountain road
They never shirked the heavy job and they shouldered the workload
And though workmen no matter how good don't ever win acclaim
The brothers Daniel and Jackie Brown deserve a greater fame.

They worked hard and they drank hard and they never took a wife
And they were two you could not ask about the easy life
And you might say that they did their bit and in life achieved a lot
And it galls me just to even think that they might be forgot.

---

A memory from 85

by

Francis Duggan

I've always thought that gaelic football was a grand and a sporting game
But after witnessing a match between Rockchapel and Kiskeam
Played in the gaelic playing field half a mile from Knocknagree
The uglier side of gaelic football was all brought home to me.

'Twas Duhallow B league final on an evening in July
And with little to enthuse about for a neutral such as I
A scrappy game of football and the language it was crude
And both sets of supporters were mouthing loud and rude

And I watched on in silence and I could not feel amused
When a linesman by an old Rockchapel mentor was abused
And one could feel the tension rising and things were boiling to a brawl
And 'twould not be a night for sportsmanship or classical football.

And worse was to come later and an ugly sight to see
A young Rockchapel player assaulting the referee
And when he received his marching orders and refused to leave the field
The ref to intimidation rightly refused to yield.

The ref blew the final whistle with kiskeam to the fore
They had won a tarnished victory by a mere five points to four
In a brutal game of football they'd survived a gruelling test
But at kicking and at mouthing they had come out second best.

'Twas a sad night for gaelic football and Duhallow's night of shame
And I'm not pardoning Kiskeam they must partly share the blame
But for a cup and set of medals and with little else at stake
For their attitude and thuggery Rockchapel took the cake.

The ref's motor van was interfered with and a door lock it got broke
By a wild man from Rockchapel a half crazed gray haired bloke
And this rowdy behaviour over a game of ball
It's no wonder I felt sickened fairly sickened by it all.

I've always thought that gaelic football did not have an ugly side
That the players and spectators on their native game took pride
But now I know quite different and I see things differently
Since that Duhallow local derby game that was played in Knocknagree.

---

By Leongatha Town

by

Francis Duggan

The magpie on a gum tree pipes as the sun goes down
In paddock by the roadway by Leongatha Town
And leaves are gently rustling in the cool evening breeze
On a pleasant evening in January of around 20 degrees.

In the cool of the evening the little goldfinch sing
The music in his warble to it has a pleasant ring
In Mother Nature's garden birds pipe for territory
And the borders that are real to them are invisible to me.

Brown butterflies with dark wing spots flit around the wild growing flowers
Their life is brief they quickly age a year for every hour
Their prime hours spent in making love the need to multiply
And the natural survival instincts even in the fragile butterfly.

The countryside around Leongatha as old as father time
It has inspired the artists and inspired the bards to rhyme
It has outlived the dinosaurs and it's age none seem to know
And to the ancient paddocks the seasons come and go.

The magpie on a gum tree he pipes his flute like song
A familiar Australian to this country he belong
After eight in the evening as the sun is going down
In a paddock in South Gippsland by Leongatha Town.

---

At Clarabeg

by

Francis Duggan

At Clarabeg in the high fields by the mountain
The black faced lambs around their mothers play
And rain at times persistent fall in drizzle
At mid morning of an early April day.

The gray crow cawing in the grove by the farmyard
And skylark piping in the cloudy sky
Most other birds sing on bush, tree and hedgerow
But the lark can only carol as he fly.

The daisies they have come back to the high fields
In Spring their numbers seem to multiply
One of the first to bloom in Clarabeg by the mountains
And usually the last wildflowers to die.

To Clarabeg the Spring do not come early
And growth is at it's prime towards the end of May
And the cuckoo's voice echoes by the mountains
And the swallows have returned from far away.

At Clarabeg by the mountains of Duhallow
The cock robin proclaims his territory
The drizzling rain don't seem to cause him bother
As he pipes on high branch of silver birch tree.

And at Clarabeg which means small Clara mountain
In the high country west of Millstreet Town
The little larks in the rain clouds are singing
And the black faced lambs the hills run up and down.

---

Old Clara Hill

by

Francis Duggan

Old Clara hill in Millstreet in Duhallow
Your well worn paths the goats run up and down
For centuries overlooking the green country
Long before there ever was a Millstreet Town.

Old Clara hill your years cannot be counted
For you have been around as long as time
Duhallow poets have written much about you
And you've inspired Sliabh luachra's bards to rhyme.

Old Clara hill beneath a clump of bracken
The skylark on her nest is hid away
The future generation of hill singers
In her small eggs with brown spots through the gray.

Old Clara hill to the cross upon your summit
I often climbed in Summer days long gone
And eat the whortleberries from your heather
Such happy memories with me still live on.

Old Clara Hill you've been around for centuries
And men of sixty years are in decay
You have not changed since I was a young fellow
And I've grown gray and older by the day.

I've heard the skylark singing high above you
And I've seen you in your winter hat of snow
And from your slopes I have seen Duhallow's beauty
Though that now seems a quite a long time ago.

Old Clara hill I often think about you
Though from you I live thousands of miles away
You will always be the mountain of my childhood
And I miss you more than words can ever say.

---

Auden's time

by

Francis Duggan

In the sixties in my prime
Before I discovered rhyme
And felt the yearn for the warmer clime
That was back in Auden's time.

Auden then was showing his years in gray
And he had known a better day
Yet he was famous and so well known
And still in a class of his own.

With words Auden had a way
And in his works he lives today
Surely a poetic great
And he was never second rate.

In the sixties he was greatly admired
And a new generation of poets by him inspired
And though since he died three decades gone
His fame in his literary works live on

And though I was not an Auden fan
I too now admire the man
Quite a genius one might say
And respect to him one ought to pay.

In the sixties I recall
My passion was gaelic football
Before I discovered rhyme
That was back in Auden's time.

---

The roads of life

by

Francis Duggan

Of course I know that the past is gone forever
But in the past the seeds of our lives are sown
And I still have memories of a childhood close to Nature
And from those good memories happiness has grown.

The roads of life for most are never easy
The hilly roads of life wind up and down
And I have known the good and the not so good days
Since I left Claraghatlea near Millstreet Town.

To visualize to most people comes easy
The dippers scratchy notes I still can hear
They always pipe in rill and stream and river
In changing weather or when rain is near.

The rushy fields of Duhallow looking green now
As green as they have ever looked before
And wildflowers blooming on the grassy margins
By the roadway out of Millstreet towards Rathmore.

The roads of life have led me to Australia
To the vast land of emu and kangaroo
I wake to the laughter of the kookaburra
And the harsh cries of the white cockatoo.

On the high gums the Aussie magpie fluting
His song once heard you never can mistake
And grey butcherbird one of the first to carol
In the faint light minutes before daybreak.

I went to see the world beyond Duhallow
And from Clara mountain I live far away
But I can visualize like all of the others
And I see the fields of Millstreet every day.

---

A shy young woman from Kilcorney

by

Francis Duggan

The hustle and the bustle of England's biggest Town
Through the streets of inner London the traffic buzz up and down
And in her boss's office just off of the busy street
A shy young migrant woman her day's task must complete.

She has typed and answered the telephone since her day's work commenced at nine
And the company invoices must be in the post by the five o clock deadline,
She must work hard to keep her job for not many jobs around
And even in a city as big as London work quite hard to be found.

A shy young woman from Kilcorney four hundred miles away
Though that's not far to live from home the travelled far might say
But to her 'tis a long distance what's far to some to others near
Yes what's near to some to others a great distance might appear.

The green fields of Kilcorney now flushed with the flowers of June
And robin on the leafy bough whistles his Summer tune
And swallows long distance travellers they twitter as they fly
Low above the meadow to and fro a sign that rain is nigh.

She lives in England's largest city the furthest she has been
From Kilcorney in Duhallow this shy young woman of nineteen
And she works in a ground floor office just off of the busy street
And by the five o clock deadline her day's task must be complete.

---

A Wren boy from Rathmore

by

Francis Duggan

The fields around Sliabh Luachra with frost were hoary gray
On the morning after Christmas on festive St Stephen's day
And the Wren boys sang the 'song of the wran' as they marched from door to door
To the music of accordions in the old Town of Rathmore.

The Wren boys had their face masks on and the boy with the money tin
Said 'thank you mam' to the housewife as she dropped a shilling in
And then on to the next house for to spread their gift of joy
In the heart of gray haired migrant there is still a laughing boy.

He himself was a Wren boy far away and long ago
When the fields with frost were hoary and the hills wore hats of snow
On the morning of St Stephen through the streets of old Rathmore
He was following in the footsteps of his father years before.

And now he tells his grandchildren before he became a man
In Rathmore in County Kerry he sang 'the song of the wran'
On the feast day of St Stephen frost or snow or hail or rain
Of his childhood in Sliabh Luachra the good memories remain.

It was cold on Stephen's morning it had been freezing overnight
And the fields around the old Town they were looking gray to white
And the Wren boys they were singing as they moved from door to door
And the music of their accordions brought great joy to old Rathmore.

---

The country I came from

by

Francis Duggan

The country I came from in Length and breadth small
But it has a proud history the historians recall
The brave freedom fighters who took on the might
Of the powerful invaders and fought the good fight.

The country I came from has such a green Spring
And blossoms are blooming where the chaffinch sing
And the wood I once lived near may seem far away
But the song of the dunnock I hear every day.

In the country I came from how can I forget
The farm crops were damaged when Summer was wet
But the cattle wintered on poor quality hay
Grew fatter on lush grass in April and May.

In the country I came from heavy Autumn rains
Swelled the streams and rivers and flooded the drains
And the farmer dejected as he counted the cost
When a third of his grain crop to weather was lost.

In the country I came from on cold Winter day
The fields by the river with frost silver gray
And your breath it looked gray in the cold morning chill
And the hungry sheep bleating in the field by the hill.

For the country I came from brave men fought and died
And it's writers and musicians were known far and wide,
A beautiful country with such a green Spring
And blossoms are blooming where the chaffinch sing.

---

A wet August day in Millstreet

by

Francis Duggan

From Claramore the rill in flood flow brown
Through Claraghatlea a mile from Millstreet Town
And dark to gray rain clouds across the sky
Tell that more heavy showers of rain are nigh.

You know that bird to whom the voice belong
When you hear the dipper sing his scratchy song
He pipe his loudest when the flood is high
And the wet conditions he seem to enjoy.

The last thing that the farmer needs is rain
A hungry Winter for his stock again
In August only four or five days dry
And half of his hay crop rotted in July.

And yet in all of his years he has not seen
His fields in August quite so lush and green
And he can only hope for a good Fall
And that September will be drier after all.

O'er rushy fields by where the rivers meet
Perhaps a mile from the Town of Millstreet
The little lark of Humankind quite shy
Above the rain clouds carolling as he fly.

The Winter months the Duhallow farmer fear
The very wet Summer has cost him dear
And from Claramore the rill in flood flow brown
Through Claraghatlea a mile from Millstreet Town.

---

The Young Aussie

by

Francis Duggan

In the company of women he is not coy or shy
A real macho type is the young Aussie guy
And some young women like him though some young women say
A bit of a boofhead who pushes his way.

He likes to talk cricket with his mates drinking beer
But of god and of religion he do not wish to hear
He do not have a god for to which he can pray
And he is never seen in a church on sunday.

He is a great fan of Aussie Rules football
To him the one true game and the best game of them all
On friday night he goes to the football and on saturday to the pub
And on sunday evening he drinks in the Sportsman's club.

The young Aussie bloke he don't use words like date
His woman to him she is more of a mate
On saturday night at the disco for five hours or more
He parties and drinks till the small hours of four.

Though much his own man in him there is much good
And the young Aussie he would help you if he could
But don't mention god to him for he will only say
That only the impressionable to the unseen do pray.

---

The Blackbird's song

by

Francis Duggan

The blackbird's song it takes me far away
To northern land and to a distant day
His kin birds sang all day until sundown
In leafy groves just out of Millstreet Town.

A blackbird piping on a blackwood tree
Awake the nostalgic memories in me
Again I walk the lush green fields in Spring
And hear the wild birds on the hedgerows sing.

Bluebells bloom by the hedge by the bohreen
And cock pheasant often heard though seldom seen
In the knee high rushes clap his wings and crow
By their calls and songs the birds you get to know.

The distance from the home fields may be long
But whenever the migrant hear the blackbird's song
He or she will see the lushness brought by rain
And walk through fields where wild flowers bloom again.

To it the blackbird's song has a nostalgic ring
It takes the migrant to a distant Spring
And though far distant the homeland near 'twould seem
And the dipper's song is echoing in the stream.

I thought this thing nostalgia I'd outgrown
But the blackbird's song it carries me back home
And I walk the high fields where I walked before
Up to the hill through the wood at Claramore.

---

The voices come to me from long ago

by

Francis Duggan

The voices come to me from long ago
Of Nature's children that I used to know
I hear them sing on hedge and tree and bush
The robin and the blackbird and the thrush.

From April on the fields are lush and green
And wild flowers in their billions to be seen
And lambs bleat in the field beside the hill
And the dipper he is singing in the rill.

The redwings have gone home to far away
And the hawthorns cloaked in their white flowers of May
And chaffinch pipes his happy notes to Spring
And swallows o'er the meadows fly and sing.

The curlew o'er the bogland flies around
And he flutes his finest o'er his breeding ground
He and his mate in the bog raise their family
And then fly off to their home by the sea.

At times far off and at other times quite near
The cuckoo's voice sweet music to the ear
Her egg in nest of smaller bird she lay
The only part in motherhood she play

And late at evening when darkness cloaks the sky
The shy male snipe above the bogland fly
And with his wings and tail he makes a goat like sound
As through the night he flies around and round.

The voices come to me from long ago
Of Nature's children that I used to know
When Spring arrived and she shook her emerald gown
And she spread her green in the fields near Millstreet Town.

---

The bridge that marks the border

by

Francis Duggan

The gateway to Sliabh Luachra home of cultural greats of yore
The bridge on the Cork and Kerry border by the Town of Rathmore
A place known around the world many miles from Erin's shore
For it's singers and musicians and it's writers by the score.

Old bridge that marks the border if you could speak you'd say
How some of the boys and girls who once sat on you now live quite far away
From the Cork and Kerry border they show their years in gray
In lands such as Britain and Australia and the U S of A.

A younger generation sit on the bridge today
But some like those before them in Sliabh Luachra will not stay
The grass always seems greener in the field beyond the hill
And the bug known as 'lust for wander' in some people living still.

O'er the bridge that marks the border the cars pass to and fro
And the dipper bird is silent now where the stream rapids flow
And cold January at it's coldest and the hills shrouded in fog
And the chill winds from the northlands blow across Inches bog.

---

Tony Galvin

by

Francis Duggan

He died in England a few years ago
Poor Tony Galvin one I used to know
But for his soul there is no need for prayer
For if there's a heaven he is surely there.

He had his human frailties like us all
But his stronger points are what we should recall
And he was one who had integrity
And he will be remembered for his honesty.

Though born and raised in England Millstreet his favourite place
And in Millstreet Town his was a well known face
But he did not live to see his children grow
And he died far from where Finnow waters flow.

He expired in his forties as a youngish man
And he wasn't granted such a lengthy span
He could be healthy and still living today
But suppose it wasn't meant to be that way.

In years from now he'll be remembered still
In that old town by ancient Clara hill
The Millstreet that he loved as his home place
where his became a well known and loved face.

One thing for sure in life is we all must die
And on looking back those years just seem to fly
And perhaps from life's cares he found a release
And Tony Galvin may he rest in peace.

---

The Rose of Korumburra

by

Francis Duggan

Her shoulder length hair is golden and her eyes are a light brown
The rose of Korumburra the old south Gippsland town,
Five foot ten without high heels and well proportioned and fair
And young women of such beauty to say the least quite rare.

Twenty on her last birthday and almost in her prime
Young women of such beauty have inspired the bards to rhyme
The local young men rave about her but of her they can only dream
For she is bound for bigger things at least that's how 'twould seem.

Next month she leaves Korumburra she is going north I hear
To the harbour city of Sydney to start a modelling career
The catwalks of the fashion world she will walk up and down
And the rose of Korumburra will know great wealth and renown

She will be rich and famous and in the fashion world well known
The rose of Korumburra in a class of her own
We will read of her success and feel a certain pride
That she hailed from the old town in the south Gippsland country side.

The Rose of Korumburra approaching her prime day
And she is destined for bigger things the well informed say
As a wealthy and famed young woman far north of her home town
The catwalks of the fashion world she will walk up and down.

---

Mick Punk

by

Francis Duggan

We called him Mick Punk he stuck out his tongue
And he shook his fist at us, we ran away
It was our way of making childhood fun
Are children any different today?

His fist shaking was only in pretence
For that poor fellow would not harm a fly
He was not really bothered by our taunts
And our attentions he seemed to enjoy.

'Mick Punk' the only name we knew him by
Though I think Michael Murphy was his proper name
And in Millstreet Town when I was a young lad
He was a character who enjoyed local fame.

A fellow I can vaguely visualize
when childhood memories I tend to recall
A barrel chested man of sturdy build
Of five foot six or five foot seven tall.

If memory serves me right he had tattoos
And he was a sailor in his prime 'twas said
But without a woman to weep on his grave
For I don't think that he had ever wed.

We called him Mick Punk he stuck out his tongue
And he shook his fist and frightened us away
And the school children who taunted him back then
Are now getting old and show their years in gray.

---

A warm August day in old Duhallow

by

Francis Duggan

A warm August day in old Duhallow far north of here and miles away
And swallows high o'er sunlit meadows scenting sweetly of mown hay
And songbirds silent on the hedgerows in Summer you seldom hear them sing
they always pipe their finest in the prime months of the Spring.

A warm day in August in the fields of Knocknagree
And old gray faced rook is cawing on high branch of elm tree
And the magpie he is chattering as into the grove he fly
From once seen and heard he's one that's not hard to identify.

A warm day by Clara mountain by the old Town of Millstreet
And the skylark is not singing o'er the bracken in the heat
In the warm days of late Summer he don't feel the urge to fly
High above the sunlit mountain for to carol in the sky.

A warm day in August and the drains of water dry
And the old man says often in August I've seen water flowing bank high
And the long range weather forecast is the weather will be fine
And that at least another fortnight of warm days and sunshine.

A warm August day in Duhallow and the farmer in short sleeves
And the temperatures quite pleasant around 25 degrees
Still it can't be very long now till the cool winds of change blow
And the Paps and Caherbarnagh will be in their hats of snow.

---

A story by Denise

by

Francis Duggan

All through the night the strange voice in my ear
At once far off and then so very near
Denise Denise Denise the voice did say
All through the night until the dawn of day.

We had pitched our tents on Aboriginal sacred ground
And ghosts of Aboriginals all around
And all through the night that strange voice I did hear
And I felt nervous I was touched by fear.

And though my ghost story they did not believe
Next morning told my sons this place we leave
I was determined to put miles and miles of space
Between ourselves and sacred haunted place.

My story not from voices in a dream
And my story true though far fetched it may seem
And still the voice call in my memory
From sacred ground of Aborigine.

---

To Albert on having been late for 's o t c'

by

Francis Duggan

Oh Albert wise man from east side of Melbourne Town
We your true friends of late have felt let down
Since we will not be seeing you on t v
In big quiz game 'Sale of the century'.

For your screen test appointment you were slightly late
And the receptionist said to you I'm sorry mate
But another took your place and time is time
And we are punctual here at channel nine.

Your chance of fame and fortune you did miss
But you had to keep an eye on Nick and Chris
And stay at work till knock off time at four
Your business first we understand the score.

Oh Albert by the clock you have been beat
But one time late don't ever mean defeat
Enter again give it another try
As you've got nothing to lose and never you say die.

With your great brain a quick fortune you could make
So enter again if just for your own sake
And next time at the appointed time be there
And make yourself a dollar millionaire.

And let those Ferntree Gully people know
That Albert D'elassandro isn't slow
And let all of the people of Australia see
That very wise men come from Italy.

---

Edward Harrington

by

Francis Duggan

With the best writers of his era Edward Harrington did rate
The farmer's son from Shepparton was a poetic great
He wrote the stirring ballads that poetry lovers love to recite
A poem of his recited at many a poetry night.

As a young man Edward Harrington went off to fight in war
And through the remainder of his life he carried the mental scar
Of his terrible experiences in Palestine far away
And the mental scar remained with him until his dying day.

His great ballads of the Australian bush rangers Dan Morgan and the Kelly gang are sung
By ballad singers who heard them when they themselves were young,
Australia's most notorious in verse he glorified
The men who hid from the law in the rugged country side.

He was one of Australia's last famous men of rhyme
The poems of Edward Harrington have withstood the test of time
And those who knew the great poet said he was sensitive and shy
And fame and adulation he did not seem to enjoy.

In 1965 in his seventieth year Edward Harrington passed away
But his poems are still recited and his songs are sung today
The farmer's son from Shepparton a prince of poetry
One of Australia's finest and few as great as he.

---

A rhymer to them is a poetaster

by

Francis Duggan

You highly educated University professors you may boast of your literary degrees
You try to tell us what is or is not poetry enough of your rhetoric please
You tried your best for to kill off rhyme at least you gave it your best try
But no thanks to you rhyme is still living and it just refuses to die.

You cannot kill off the songs of Burns or the Nature poems of John Clare
These men they were born as true poets and true poets have always been rare
And in the gold rush days of the eighteen nineties Robert Service was a man inspired
Of reading his immortal ballads of the Yukon some people do never grow tired.

John Masefield once England's Poet Laureate as a young man worked as a deck hand in a boat
His inspiration to 'Saltwater ballads' the makings of one mighty poet
He was the true poet of the people and was famed far beyond his home shore
His longer poems more like rhyme stories perhaps will live forever more.

William Henry Davies he tramped around the world a living legend of his time
Some might say not well educated yet he penned such beautiful rhyme
The so called literary experts do not rate him highly his verse is too simple they say
Yet in his lifetime he was loved by the masses and he still has many readers today.

They took the poetry from the people and who should be published or not they decide
And a rhymer to them is a poetaster and his or her works they only deride
But music and rhyme go together and they make for a beautiful song
And those who claim a poem must not rhyme it would seem have got their facts wrong.

You boast of your knowledge of poetry and you boast of your literary degrees
But rhyme no thanks to you is still living and enough of your rhetoric please
You preach on your own truths on poetry and your knowledge on the wordsmith trade
But the fact it will always be with us that poets are born not made.

---

Burns Birthday 'Jan 25th'

by

Francis Duggan

Today is the birthday of Robert Burns the greatest poet of his clan and race
He will always be the favourite son of Scotland and never anyone to take his place
Today they celebrate his life in Scotland and in pubs around the land drink to his fame
There never was a greater poet than Burns and of his equals so few one could name.

For Auld lang syne that song will live forever it will live as the anthem of the new year
The Scots tonight in pubs around the world to their National bard will raise the glass of cheer
And sing Lang syne and my heart is in Scotland and that great love song about his Red red rose
And they will shed a tear for their old Celtic homeland to the haunting strains of where Afton water flows.

The poems and songs of Burns belong to all peoples though the Scots will always claim him as their own
A literary legend in his brief life span and in death his legend it has grown and grown
In his younger years he was an Ayrshire ploughman till his great poems earned him literary renown
And his successful life enhances the great truth that circumstance don't keep a good one down.

We will toast him on his birthday Robert Burns he was the one who loved humanity
He drunk hard, sung and danced and he made merry and he was a true prince of poetry
The world was better for him living in it and his fame has spread far beyond his homeland shore
And his poems and songs now belong to all peoples and his name it will live on for forever more.

---

We are bloody hard to please

by

Francis Duggan

We are ninety per cent water with a bit of bone and brain
And we do not like warm sunshine and we do not like the rain
And some anthropoligists claim our ancestors were people of the trees
But of one fact I am certain we are bloody hard to please.

Some find reason to dislike you if to their culture you don't belong
Or if your god to theirs is different with you they find something wrong
And if your skin colour is different with you they don't feel at ease
And one of our greatest frailties is we are bloody hard to please.

If you are a wealthy tycoon and you own half of the town
There are many like me out there doing their best to drag you down
And they do not like you either if you shovel in mud up to your knees
We are rather complicated and we are bloody hard to please.

You may be a social worker and one of those who help the poor
And for the social ills that plague us you are trying to find the cure
But some will see in your acts of kindness a weakness on which they can seize
And find cause to criticize you we are bloody hard to please.

You show some a flowering garden and they will only see decay
Though for that I ought not to criticize them since I too am a bit that way
In most humans cynicism is an incurable disease
One might say we are dysfunctional and so bloody hard to please.

---

I envy them

by

Francis Duggan

I envy them their close links to Mother Nature and I envy them their freedom of the sky
And I envy them their grace and natural beauty for a thing of natural beauty is a thing of joy
As winter nears the swallows do not tarry off to the warmer climate they do fly
And I worry about myself and my needs are they not that much happier than I?

Today I watched the swallows o'er the paddocks chasing winged insects they flew to and fro
I envy them their carefree life and freedom restriction a thing they will never know
They are not shackled by worry like humans the gift of freedom is a marvellous thing
I watched them fly above the sunlit paddocks and as they flew I heard them chirp and sing.

Their span of time seems brief compared to our span but they know joy and freedom every day
And when the chilly winds of Fall blow colder to the warmer climate they will fly away
Their innocence until death will be with them they do not judge, begrudge or criticize
And all day long above the sunlit padocks they chase flying beetles, mosquitoes, bees and flies.

And all day long above the sunlit paddocks they chirp and twitter in the sunlit sky
And they do not seem to have a care or worry and they seem happier by far than I
And I envy them their freedom and their innocence and their carefree ways the man in me begrudge
These feathered children of the goddess nature who never envy criticize or judge.

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The Tatie Hokers of the seventies

by

Francis Duggan

The tatie hokers of the seventies where might they be today?
Perhaps some of them are grand parents now and showing their years in gray
And perhaps some of them have gone to the reaper the reaper who will claim us all
But them I still remember and them I still recall.

Too old to pick potatoes for to earn a decent pay
For such hard work for people who are young or so 'twould seem that way
And without a doubt there are easier jobs for one to earn one's livelihood
The pay not big, the work is hard and working conditions far from good.

To those old brown potato fields of Wales by the Atlantic sea
I never shall return to now just a memory
Of the sort of a life style I did lead when I was in my prime
Back in the early seventies when I was new to rhyme.

Dark haired Jodie from Yorkshire back then she was nineteen
The flower of the potato fields she was a beauty queen
With her she had her pet jackdaw his name was little Joe
Though free to fly he never flew away he went where she did go.

Did she marry a gipsy man with hair as black as coal
For each to their own kind they say she was a wandering soul
And did she give birth to children and who knows they too may be
In May picking potatoes by the Atlantic sea?

Mick from Fermoy a hardy sort back then past his prime years
For his hometown in County Cork he was never moved to tears
Fond of his grog and rather fond of the nomadic life
He was never heard to speak of love and he did not have a wife.

Michael, John and Denis from north Cork back then were at their best
To the hard life of the potato fields they proved equal to the test
I heard that Michael he died young from life's cares he found release
He was a gentle sort of a bloke and may he rest in peace.

And Jack from Shropshire tall and lean his longish hair was black
All day long in the potato fields he worked with bended back
He was a generous sort of a bloke and in him nothing small
But he had a fondness for the beer and grog was his downfall.

On looking back the decades the years just seemed to fly
Above those old potato fields the gulls mewed in the sky
But that was thirty years ago and the baby at that time
Is the ageing father of today and fading from his prime.

The tatie hokers of the seventies where might they be today
Perhaps they bow to father time and show their years in gray
And across the brown potato fields the cool sea breezes blow
Where I picked the new spuds in May some thirty years ago.

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Possum

by

Francis Duggan

There was an old bloke his nickname was possum he lived along by the Murray river years ago
One who lived in harmony with Mother Nature and about Nature little he did not know
He migrated to Australia from New Zealand as a young man and to his homeland he never did return
And he lived without a home in Nature's garden and from the life of one like him we do have much to learn.

By Max Jones the country detective and author in book form Possum's story has been told
For many years he slept in hollow logs in the open and the amazing thing is that he lived to be old
Without welfare or any sort of an income for money was a thing he did not need
He did not need any cash in the outback since Nature supplied him with every feed.

From Wentworth in New South Wales to Renmark in South Australia in length and breadth that do seem quite a span
The countryside frequented by old Possum he surely was a true nomadic man
In the sparsely populated Riverlands he became a well known character a fleeting glimpse of Possum walking by
And by all accounts he was helpful and generous despite the fact that he was rather shy.

In his his younger years Possum was a top class shearer though every shearer has a use by date
But the money that he earned he gave to poor wanderers and children his needs were little though his soul was great
He died under the stars in the vast outback
In eleven degrees below zero the night was cold
He had survived to a ripe old age for a homeless nomad an octogenarian of 81 years old.

Max Jones the author he deserves much credit for writing the story of poor Possum's life
He was a man who did not father children a nomad who did not have kin or wife
Yet don't tell me that his life was not a success since to help out others he went out of his way
And it well could be that the winners of the future could be the type referred to as losers today

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