I left my heart

by

Francis Duggan

I left my heart or did my heart leave me
Off Pleasant street by Lake of Wendouree
Where I whiled hours of leisure time away
Just sitting in the shade on sunny sunday.

Just watching water birds swim to and fro
The Australian black swan big star of the show
On land he seem quite clumsy out of place
But on water he looks princely bird of grace.

The little coot he never ceases to surprise
A cheeky little fellow for his size
Along the water surface he flap his wings and run
And dive and bob and life for him much fun.

And musk duck the eccentric of the lake
The type of bird one never can mistake
With rubbery looking fleshy piece of skin
Hanging loosely from his double chin.

And Australian black duck timid and so shy
He don't trust me eyes me with wary eye
And though of man he's lost most natural fear
He still manages to keep safe distance clear.

And silver gull far from his home the sea
The feathered glutton of lake Wendouree
Like hungry beggar always craving food
And for one his size quite arrogant and rude.

Oh I left my heart or did my heart leave me
By Wendouree neath bough of shady tree
In Ballarat town so many miles away
Just watching water birds on sunny day.

---

Vasco Da Gama

by

Francis Duggan

The first European to discover the sea route to India he lives on in marine history
With Columbus and Tasman and Amerigho and other great men of the sea
The Portuguese Vasco Da Gama ventured far from his native shore
Even further than his countryman Dias had travelled a decade before.

He's been dead for nearly five centuries but his name out of
history won't fade
The adventures of Vasco Da Gama the stuff of which legends are made
One of the great early explorers he died in fifteen twenty four
When he was in his early fifties though his fame will live forever more.

Many of his sailors died of scurvy and few of them lived to be old
Theirs was the lot of the sea farers in their great adventures for gold
But to their end they remained true to Da Gama and with him they sailed the high seas
And with them took to other cultures the culture of the Portuguese.

One of the great early explorers his legend is still living today
The one who died in Cochin in India from Portugal so far away
He risked the wild waves fraught with danger in his quest for fortune and fame
And he discovered the sea route to India and Vasco Da Gama was his name.

---

Francis Thompson

by

Francis Duggan

He was the poet who wrote the great poem 'Daisy' a thing of beauty that will never die
About his love for one he knew in childhood who near broke the heart of a sensitive teenage boy
And later on he wrote the 'Hound of heaven' a poem in colleges that lives today
And one might say he truly lived his verses and nothing easy ever came his way.

Addicted to opium he was one of many in those bleak times who knew great poverty
The Meynells Wilfrid and Alice helped him in no small way and perhaps saved him from obscurity
Some famous poets have lived a tough existence and only in death of hardship they were free
In a fair world they should not have had to suffer though life is never as fair as it should be.

In life the poet from Preston struggled for recognition and he died without a penny to his name
And though posthumously he became very famous to a dead person what's the use in fame
T'was George Bernard Shaw said 'Life was not meant to be easy' and he should have added at least not for the bard
And Francis Thompson who died in his late forties was one who slept rough and lived it very hard.

Poor Francis Thompson was a humble fellow he never thought that as a poet he'd rate
And though to him now it really does not matter he is considered a poetic great
For many years he lived on the streets homeless and though his name lives on in literature today
I'd rather have a house and a warm bed to sleep in than have to live my life in such a way.

---

On the sunlit beaches at Bondi

by

Francis Duggan

On the sunlit beaches at Bondi young and pretty girls are not rare
They swim in the low tide and frolic unburdened t'would seem
by life's cares
Bronzed from the sun and the warm coastal breeze their likes one don't see everywhere
The young bloke from the colder climate at such beauty can't help but stare.

He hails from Millstreet in Duhallow an old town distant from the sea
And he still feels nostalgic and homesick and he miss home and his family
He miss the old fields and green meadows where the ageless finnow ever flow
And he miss the old brown face of Clara who now wears his white hat of snow.

Where he hails from different to Sydney he feels such an outsider here
He miss the night life of his hometown the pubs and the craic and the beer
And though he may yet settle in Sydney and in this great southern land stay
He will always remember his hometown and the fields and the woods far away.

The young black faced lambs with their mothers play in the high fields by the hill
And in early spring in old Duhallow the year's first flowers appear by the rill
And new leaves on the tree branches budding and robin with the orange red breast
Sings on the trees around his borders and helps his wife to build their nest.

On the sunlit beaches at Bondi on march the first autumn's first day
Bronzed beauties in the low tide swimming whilst others in the sunshine lay
And the young man feels homesick for Ireland and for where his life's journey began
In Millstreet his home in Duhallow the town where he grew to a man.

---

To Lyn

by

Francis Duggan

He'll always be that little baby boy
She rocked to sleep to a soft lullaby
That little boy who passed on in his prime
And did not leave his end to father time.

Her Matthew he was only twenty five
But he had lost the will that we all need to survive
That will that urges us to carry on
When we feel that all of our better days are gone.

For Lyn the heaviest cross given her to bear
And her broken heart will take years to repair
And nothing for her that anyone can do
Since the grieving process she has to go through.

I wish that I could help her in some way
But nothing anyone can do or say
Could bring back to her, her beloved only son
Death is so final and the reaper spares none.

He did not live on to be old and gray
Perhaps his life not mapped out in that way
And his mum and dad and only sister burdened with the cross
Of trying to come to terms with their loss.

---

The Fir Bolg

by

Francis Duggan

They lived in 'Tir na nog' many centuries ago
And they live on in myth and legend and little else we know
Of the tribe known as Fir Bolg which means 'belly man'
Perhaps from them the myth of the Leprechaun had it's source and began.

The brave little tribes of Ireland their rivals did not fear
Yet they were dispossessed by the invaders De Danaan or so it would appear
And though badly outnumbered they did not run away
And they went down with honour and their legend lives today.

Though in science and technology mankind has travelled far
Centuries before De Danaan and Fir Bolg on each other they've waged war
And men still wage war on their fellow men and encroach upon
their land
And that we've not learned from history seems hard to understand.

And though the bones of the Fir Bolg have turned to earth and clay
The myths and legends of them alive and well today
They ruled in Tir na nog before the Tuatha De Danaan came
And in the Ireland of today they still live on in name.

---

Just a lonely old lady

by

Francis Duggan

Just a lonely old lady the years have made her gray
Her husband died of a heart attack five years ago last May
All of her true and dearest friends to the grim reaper have gone
And still the seasons come and go and she keeps living on.

The only child that her marriage brought died when she was fifteen
And though that was forty years ago she still thinks of her Jean
She did not live to fall in love and become a mum and wife
Some are burdened with a heavy cross and carry it through life.

Just a lonely old lady the oldest on the street
She sits in her porch in the sun shine and rests her tired feet
Butterflies around the flower beds flit and birds sing on the trees
And the evening seem so pleasant in the gentle coastal breeze.

Just a lonely old lady in the twilight of her life
She once was young and enjoyed the role of a mother and wife
And she knew love and happiness and her hair was not always gray
And if the reaper grants us the time we will be like her one day.

---

So much for human rights and liberty

by

Francis Duggan

In China they jail everyone who dare to speak their mind
And even in the so called democratic countries you will find
That many innocents have been jailed and even executed wrongfully
So much for human rights and liberty.

Even the United States the so called land of the free
In human rights has a poor history
And people have been wrongfully jailed and executed there
But then it's true of course that life is not always fair.

In Britain due to acts of terror by the I.R.A.
Many for the crimes of others had to pay
And spend years in jails far from home and family
Though wrongfully condemned they suffered years of ignominy.

In Australia they incarcerate refugees
In detention centres in the outback in landscapes barren of trees
Though not guilty of any crimes they spend months and years locked up because
Of bureaucratic red tape and oppressive laws.

Though for freedom and justice many young men have fought and died
Not alone in China but in countries world wide
People are still wrongfully incarcerated at the pleasure of the State
And due to a miscarriage of justice left to an uncertain fate.

---

St Patrick's Day

by

Francis Duggan

Above the fields by her old home the dawn breaks cold and gray
And the peace of the morning is disturbed when the brown donkey bray
But she don't think of her homeland thousands of miles away
As she walks home up from the beach on the feast of St Patrick's day.

Her neck and face and legs and arms are brown and heavily tanned
From the sunshine and the coastal breeze of this warm southern land
She could not live in Ireland now due to lack of sun shine
The warm weather and sea air it seems to suit her fine.

St Patrick's day a festive day on the streets of her home town
The people wear their shamrocks and the band plays up and down
And merry making in the pubs all day and all night long
As they celebrate their patron saint in beer and dance and song.

The sun has set red in the west above the quiet bay
And around the street lamps the gray moths they flit and seem to play
And she feels happy with her lot she's here for the long stay
And she don't think of her homeland though t'is St Patrick's day.

---

In fields near Ballydaly

by

Francis Duggan

Through fields near Ballydaly the river flows bank high
And rain come down in drizzle and rain clouds in the sky
And blackbird scratch leaf litter beside the bare hedgerow
And wind blow from the northland and cold enough to snow.

The coldness of november is in the mountain air
And gray fog shroud the hillside the hillside brown and bare
And salmon swimming upstream scale rocks and waterfall
Up towards their gravelly spawning beds to answer nature's call

In fields near Ballydaly the hungry black rooks caw
And on the leafless sycamore the grey headed jackdaw
Shake the water from their feathers and chatter noisily
And food becoming scarcer for the wildborn and free.

In fields near Ballydaly lit by the pale moonlight
The hungry fox is barking on cold november night
Across the silent countryside his wild shrill yaps resound
And his voice that carry distance is heard for miles around.

Near quiet Ballydaly the fields at morning gray
And the redwings have returned from cold lands far away
And the hare in from the mountain in cloak of russet brown
To warm the coldness in his bones is running up and down.

In fields near Ballydaly no wild flowers to be found
And the chattering of magpie the only living sound
And skylark is not singing above the silent bog
And the peaks of Caherbarnagh are shrouded in gray fog.

Through fields near Ballydaly the river bank high flow
And wind blow from the northlands and cold enough to snow
And four long months or maybe more before first breath of spring
Before the silent bullfinch will feel the urge to sing.

---

Kate the spinster

by

Francis Duggan

She has outlived all of her class mates she is ninety stooped and gray
And she has never lived out of her hometown never even for a day
Always happy in her homeplace never yearned for far away
All of her school friends left their hometown Kate the one who chose to stay.

Kate the spinster never married and always led a single life
Never ever knew the pleasures of a mother and a wife
And the man she loved he left town over sixty years ago
He went with his secret lover to where few if any know.

But if you think that I paint the picture of a sad case then surely you have got it wrong
For Kate she may seem old and fragile but at heart she is young and strong
At birthday parties for the aged she is always the M.C.
She sing songs and tell jokes and stories and she is happy and carefree.

I've always thought that aged spinsters were reserved and rather shy
But Kate has changed my way of thinking with her warm and friendly hi
She is never out of form and I've never seen her sour and rude
She is such a happy person always in a happy mood.

Kate the spinster young forever she feels young beyond her years
In her heart there's room for laughter but no room for regrets and tears
She may look old and stooped and fragile and her hair is silver gray
But she feels happy and contented and she makes the most of every day.

---

Neilly Joe

by

Francis Duggan

When last he drove the ambulance in Millstreet
It must be over twenty years ago
Some knew him as 'Neily the ambulance driver'
And others simply called him Neilly Joe.

With his wife and family he lived near the hospital
From their house a good view of Clara hill
His body may have left that place forever
But I reckon that his spirit lives there still.

He had his faults but none of us are perfect
And whenever duty beckoned he answered the call
And he was always helpful and kindhearted
And he endeared himself to one and all.

I'd love to write a song for Neilly Murphy
Were I born with the genius of a bard
Of how he became known around Duhallow
And of how he battled on when times were hard.

I still have mental pictures in my memory
Of small stocky man with big smile on his face
A great character he's one I still remember
And he'll live forever in my old home place.

For years he drove the ambulance in Millstreet
In all kinds of weather frost and hail and snow
Some knew him as Neilly the ambulance driver
And others simply called him Neilly Joe.

---

Young David

by

Francis Duggan

He likes the big town atmosphere young David
The city life is better by far he say
He won't be going back to the hills of Toora
He only wish they were further away.

He says that Toora is only a small place
A village that some people call a town
The summer months are hot as hell and humid
And the sun scorched hills around are bare and brown.

In Toora there's an ageing population
No jobs there for the young people to stay
On leaving school they pack and leave forever
For Melbourne and big cities far away.

Young David is a very happy fellow
He's in his prime and only twenty three
He says he likes young city women better
For of any inhibitions they are free.

He says one day he'd like to father children
But he's young as of yet to settle down
And in any case no shortage of young single women
So many of them live in the big town.

Young David is well used to city living
The discos at the weekends he enjoy
He works five days a week for a scaffold builder
And he's outgrown the tag of country boy.

---

John Ackland says

by

Francis Duggan

John Ackland foresees a better way of life
A world free of hatred and of strife
Of anger, mistrust, jealousy and fear
The day of human enlightment is near.

John Ackland has the wisdom of a sage
He's wiser than many twice his age
For one of forty years he has profound knowledge in store
I feel somehow he must have lived before.

Whatever about heaven or of hell
John Ackland says the body just a shell
The body only die but not the soul
And there's life beyond the urn and the grave hole.

John Ackland says that hate destroys the mind
And to the higher self it makes us blind
That envy and mistrust eats happiness away
And from the soul shut out enlightment ray.

John Ackland says that love can cure all woes
That from love happiness and kindness grows
And that Planet Earth will be a crime free place
In the new age of the enlightened race.

John Ackland say that as one we will be together
That every one your sister and your brother
And that love will unite the coming generations
And Planet Earth will be as one big Nation.

John Ackland sees an end to pain and sorrow
And that mistrust will subside with each tomorrow
And he says the body only die the soul keeps living
And that human love brings the gift of forgiving.

---

From the experiences she's had

by

Francis Duggan

In broken English she spoke about the taliban
The ex refugee from war torn Afghanistan
Their rule to say the least was quite austere
And all Afghan women of them lived in fear.

But she added the northern alliance when they ruled just as bad
And their feuding warlords dangerous and mad
And they rule again in Afghanistan today
But the leopard never changes his spots or so they say.

Things in Afghanistan still seem far from okay
And for her war ravaged homeland the Afghan migrant pray
But she feels happy that she at last is free
Of discrimination, oppression and poverty.

Her knowledge comes from the experiences she's had
And she says the northern alliance as the taliban just as bad
And from a village north of Kabul her life's journey began
The noble woman from Afghanistan.

---

The ex Government minister.

by

Francis Duggan

He lives on his fat retirement pension and he's doing quite okay
And with his wealthy buddies on the golf course every day
He practices his putting and his driving and the good life he enjoy
And of thirst and malnutrition this man will never die.

On the board of a big corporation he makes more in one day
Than many in a month do who work hard for their pay
A man who has become wealthy out of the social divide
As the gap between the haves and the have nots has grown wide.

A former government minister none of his mates are poor
And his wife and his family are financially secure
Still good luck to him as I not to be his judge
And of his easy life and affluence him I should not begrudge.

With their wealthy connections he and his wife dine
And in the upper class restaurants drink the most expensive wine
And his voters who gave to him fame and helped his wealth to grow
Are not part of his circle and them he do not wish to know.

---

Yesterday's man

by

Francis Duggan

He has travelled where few men have travelled before
In temperatures low as minus sixty or more
In the antartic winter in the freezing wind driven snow
Back when he was younger a long time ago.

A shadow of the man he once used to be
His hands keep on shaking as he drinks his tea
The silver haired fellow he walks with a cane
And only the memories with him now remain

Of his glorious era when in his life's bloom
When he walked from Adelaide via Perth to Broome
A fragile old fellow he looks back in pride
To when he was famous and known far and wide.

He has just turned eighty and humble old Dan
Says I had my day I am yesterday's man
But the young dashing fellows who are now in their prime
Will too one day like me become victims of time.

He could walk for hours without tiring and he could run fast
And though all his better days now in the past
His memory still good and his thoughts are still clear
And of the dreaded grim reaper he don't hold any fear.

The years have left him looking feeble and gray
And though he is one who made the most of his day
The longest human life in time a short span
And the reaper is waiting on yesterday's man.

---

Your stories mate

by

Francis Duggan

Your stories mate I've heard you tell before
About those high green fields of Claramore
And about your town of Millstreet far away
That is what 'Aussie Dave' to me did say.

My cousin John was in Ireland last July
And in thirty days of summer four days dry
And he did not rave about the scenery
The fog cloaked hills he did not often see.

And though he found the Irish people overall quite nice
The hospitality came at a price
For the cost of living there he said was high
And not much free activities to enjoy.

I love Australia my homeland says Dave
And if ever for a holiday I'll save
It will be for Byron Bay or the Gold Coast maybe
But never for a land beyond the sea.

You talk about the fields of Claraghatlea
Lush and green and in their wild flowers of the May
And the spring water bubbling in Tubrid well
Such stories I have often heard you tell.

Your stories mate I've heard them all before
Suppose the savage loves his native shore
But Australia 'mate' is good enough for me
And I never yearn for land beyond the sea.

---

And he is now a wiser boy

by

Francis Duggan

In sunlit park beside the sea a seven year old boy
Chased after seagulls up and down and chuckled loud with joy
They let him get so near to them but seagulls are too wise
And they flapped their wings and flew up to the safety of the skies.

They land some fifty yards away he's after them once more
But they repeated what they'd done some fifty times before
He's out of breath his legs grow tired he has run out of steam
And catching birds no easy game or so to him t'would seem.

He rest beside a leafy tree and sleep there in the shade
On ground by him ham sandwiches his mum for him had made
And as he sleep the seagulls come and gather all around
Could that be food in plastic bag near little boy on ground?.

One seagull braver than the rest snatches the bag and fly
And after him the others chase and their noise wake up the boy
He find his sandwiches have gone and tears begin to flow
And he leave the park a sadder boy and home to mummy go.

'He Sobs' whilst I slept by a tree the sea birds stole my food
But his mum feel out of sorts today and in unsympathetic mood
She show him little sympathy but smack his face and say
I did not make you sandwiches for birds to steal away.

The seagulls had the final laugh they ate his ham and bread
And he is now a wiser boy the little fellow Fred
And next time he goes in the park before he has his fun
He'll eat up all his sandwiches then after sea birds run.

---

On days like today

by

Francis Duggan

The parks and gardens look greener from recent summer showers
And the butterflies flit around the sunlit flowers
And in the blue sky just a few patches of gray
So good to be living on such a fine day.

A mass of pink flowers the flowering gum tree wear
At such a thing of beauty one can only stare
And green mother nature has warmth in her smile
T'is days like today that make living worth while.

On days like today I feel how lucky am I?
The best things in life we don't pay to enjoy
So sunny and pleasant twenty four degrees
And the warm southern wind shakes the leaves on the trees.

On days like today old Mandy next door
Is out on her backyard for three hour or more
In the shade of the wattle she sits on her chair
And hums an old tune and she seems free of care.

In temperatures ideal not too warm or cool
The children are laughing on their way home from school
And heaven from earth is not that far away
Or so it would seem on days like today.

---

In all of our lives

by

Francis Duggan

In all of our lives the changes have been happening the Mayan calendar says the end not far away
Another country bombed more displaced people and the world keeps getting smaller every day
Have the so called super powers the right to destroy our Planet and in so doing inflict suffering and pain?
By trying to destroy the earth ourselves we'll only destroy
and the Planet we once lived in will remain.

In a just society there should be no such a thing as famine
and for food people should not have to compete
In drought ravaged parts people die in their thousands whilst others have far more than they can eat
I'm one of those you would consider lucky I've not been born in a drought ravaged land
And why a few tycoons grow wealthier and thousands die of hunger is something that I will never understand.

In all of our lives great changes are occuring and earth's beauty withering like a poisoned flower
Men drop their bombs and cause widespread destruction and kill their own kind in their lust for power
And refugees before the gun men fleeing in war the poor and innocents their scant possessions lose
Those with the power are often the most callous and the great power at their disposal they abuse.

In all of our lives the changes have been happening the Mayan calendar predicts our end as such draws nigh
When Mankind drops their bombs on Mother Earth who feeds us
it's not great Mother Earth they will destroy
No but themselves for Earth will survive without man and when no trace of human kind is to be found
Mother Earth will create new life forms more friendly to her
and she'll still exist for she has always been around.

---

Porth Cele

by

Francis Duggan

Sitting on a rock in Porth Cele beach
Listening to the sea birds screech
Against the rock the wild waves splash
And on to the strand the tide it dash
But the fields down under Lleithy hill
Seem undisturbed and oh so still
Against the background of wild sea
It is a pleasant sight to see.
I listen to the ocean roar
As overhead the seagulls soar
The sun will soon be fast asleep
Behind a cloud it slowly creep
'Oh' dearly would I love to stay
But home-ward I must make my way.

---

May

by

Francis Duggan

It's May and the hawthorns are in bloom
Covered in their fragile blossoms of attractive white
The flower filled meads scent of a sweet perfume
And thrill the nostrils with nature's delight.

And oh the coolness of a may time shower
Gently driven by a summer breeze
Bringing fresh vigour to each blooming flower
And making greener still the grass and trees.

And then the rain to the sun quietly give way
The sky turn brighter and the rain cloud pass
The fair hued butterflies come out to play
And flutter gaily o'er the rain soaked grass.

Oh how we long for May the summer queen
And for the splendid beauty that she bring
For lovely vales predominantly green
And leafy groves where joyful song birds sing.

But alas May will quickly fade to June
As June days quickly fade into July
And all the flowers today that are in bloom
Will in a few months shrivel up and die.

Hope I will live to see next summer's May
And hear again the wandering cuckoo's call
For like the flowers brief is the human stay
We come and go as roses in the fall.

---

Gabhairin Reo

by

Francis Duggan

Gabhairin Reo old Irish name for male snipe
A songless bird one of the silent type
A long billed bird that dwell in places poor
Rushy wet meadow and the marshy moor.

But Gabhairin reo make strange sound with his wings
Above the marshy moorland in the spring
When darkness fall above the moor he fly
And with his wings he makes a goat like cry.

From an Irish-English dictionary I quote
The Irish word 'An Gabhar' means a goat
The old Irish named him Gabhairin from the sound
That he makes with flapping wings o'er marshy ground.

And I have heard a nature lover say
That this is gabhairin reo's courtship display
That he fly across the sky when darkness fall
And with his wings make goat like courtship call.

Next time you walk down bog road on spring night
And goat like bleats disturb the peace and quiet
T'is not a goat you hear though it sound so
But male snipe known to some as gabhairin reo.

---

A victim of human cruelty

by

Francis Duggan

I saw a throstle with a broken wing
He hopped by hedgerow pity the poor thing
He will die tomorrow if he live today
As for cat or fox or dog he's easy prey.

When I think of what happened to him I feel sick
He was injured by a youngster with a stick
He aimed and struck the bird a crippling blow
And the wounded creature crept into hedgerow.

And homeward whistling happy he did go
Leaving his crippled victim to die slow
It's sad to think so very very sad
That human kind can be so very bad.

That little throstle never done him wrong
So why be cruel to little bird of song
That little songbird is about to die
Due to the cruelty of cruel hearted boy.

He rob the green wood of a singing voice
And his act of cruelty caused him to rejoice
But human kind have in them evil streak
And they torment the innocent and weak.

---

Feathering his own nest

by

Francis Duggan

When they say he is 'feathering his own nest'
They mean at self promotion he is best
And that he only observe the unwritten commandment
'Man mind thyself and to hell with all the rest'.

He believe in take but not in give and sharing
'Man mind thyself of thine own self take care'
And only take but never give to others
And what's mine is mine and what's mine is not to share.

To feather his own nest he uses money
And feathering his own nest he enjoys
And money he say give one social status
And with every million comes a social rise.

At feathering his own nest he is as good as any
And he is very fond of I and me
And to him those two are always most important
And next in line his wife and family.

He feathers his own nest with heaps of money
And you might say his nest egg grows and grows
And I and me those two are most important
And he don't spare a thought for others woes.

---

It's only money

by

Francis Duggan

I smirk when people say 'it's only money' and with very little money we get by
But money it can do a lot for people and not much of course that money cannot buy
And money it can be your greatest ally and open doors to opportunity
If you could make one wish and one wish only I'm sure you would not wish for poverty.

I'm sure you would not wish to be a pauper for that would hardly be a dream come true
But perhaps you might wish for a billion dollars and change
your mind whilst wishing and wish for two
For there is no such thing as too much money with money you can do good for the poor
You can help them for to make a new beginning by making them financially secure.

To all of you who say it's only money you ought to know that words to speak are cheap
The one who struggles to pay his house mortgage for lack of money finds it hard to sleep
He has to support his wife and young children and he has to work hard just to make ends meet
You don't find rolls of notes growing on the tree tops and you don't find rolls of notes along the street.

It's true that money don't guarantee you happiness you've heard the tale of the unhappy king
But to those who struggle just for to make ends meet the money is the most important thing
And if you have millions you are very powerful though physically you may seem quite small
And 'it's only money' what a load of rubbish about the most
Important thing of all.

---

Patrick Looney

by

Francis Duggan

You've heard so many stories of when the west was young
And about the wild and free land so many songs were sung
And back in the nineteen twenties and that's going back in time
Patrick Looney lived in Oregon when he was in his prime.

He left the fields and meadows of his home countryside
And from Gneeveguilla in east Kerry he travelled far and wide
The wanderlust was in his soul the far off hills were green
And as boys he told us stories of the things he'd done and seen.

He herded sheep in Oregon with his pack horse and his dog
And we marvelled at his stories around the burning log
For years the only roof he knew were the branches of tall tree
But Patrick loved the rugged life when he was young and free.

With his shotgun for protection against hungry wolf and bear
In the wilds of wild Oregon danger lurked everywhere
He told of the hungry bear he shot to death that roused him from his sleep
And of how it took him five hours the next day to round up all his sheeep.

The west was wild and rugged Pat Looney told us so
For he herded sheep in Oregon some eighty years ago
With his shotgun for protection and his pack horse and his dog
And we marvelled at his stories around the burning log.

---

Lew Germaine's Lookalike

by

Francis Duggan

I thought it was Lew Germaine's face I see
But then I told myself this cannot be
For Lew died seven or eight years ago
Just one who looks like one I used to know.

A tall thin man of six foot one or two
With graying hair he looks so much like Lew
And like Lew he read 'best bets' a horse racing guide
They would look like brothers standing side by side.

Had I not known that Lew had died to the man I'd have spoke
For he had his Lookalike in the gray haired bloke
I'd have shaken hands saying good to see you Lew
And good to know that you still have a bet or two.

Amazing what a Lookalike face can do
It can bring back a long dead friend to you
In another's face an old friend once again
Studying the form guide I saw Lew Germaine.

A Lookalike brought back old friend to me
And lit up his picture in my memory
And though Lew Germaine died many years ago
I saw his face on one I did not know.

---

When will I see old Clara's face again

by

Francis Duggan

When will I see old Clara's face again
And hear the dunnock piping in the rain
And see the jackdaw fly with sticks to nest
And visit the old home at Millstreet west.

I had a dream a dream of wealth and fame
That mine would be a very honoured name
And my dreams of wealth and fame I did pursue
But dreams are dreams and dreams seldom come true.

Am I still remembered in the old home place
Or am I just one more forgotten face?
I forsook my friends the day I went away
For chasing dreams there is a price ton pay.

In search of better life my foolish dream
And like autumn leaf lost in the flooded stream
I left my friends and family behind
And broke those ties the very ties that bind.

If I go home some of my friends might say
You forsook us on that December day
You left your home just west of Millstreet town
In search of unattainable renown.

Their land of birth one never could disown
And my sense of nostalgia I've not outgrown
And I still hold the fondest memory
Of my green homeland steeped in history.

When will I see where Finnow water flow
And walked through places I walked long ago
And when will I see old Clara's face again
And hear the dunnock piping in the rain.

---

Between Dimboola and St Arnaud

by

Francis Duggan

Miles and miles of countryside sun baked brown and gray
And the nearest town from here sixty miles away
Sun bleached grass on sunburnt ground far as the eye can see
Stretching onward it would seem to eternity.

Must have seen a million sheep or so t'would seem today
In the flat gray countryside bordering the highway
Have n't seen a horse or cow or donkey wonder why
Could it be for hairy creatures these lands far too dry?.

I feel dwarfed by this great land I feel dwarfed and small
Like an ant on sunburnt ground midst the grasses tall
Men have gone lost in this land disappeared from sight
Disappeared like little ant midst the grasses white.

If you venture from your car make sure that you stay
Within eyesight of the road of the motor way
This no country for fool hardy out there miles of ground
Men have gone lost in the bush and never more been found.

Stopped our car to stretch our legs out there in the bush
Only sound of buzzing flies in the silent hush
Miles and miles of sunburnt grass not one patch of green
Sheep and nothing else but sheep and no man to be seen.

From Dimboola to St Arnaud one hundred miles or more
I have seen more sheep today than I've ever seen before
And I feel dwarfed by this great land I feel dwarfed and small
Like an ant on sunburnt ground midst the grasses tall.

---

You blond haired woman

by

Francis Duggan

You blond haired woman with different coloured eyes
You never cease to fill me with surprise
You charm the men in Dalyston town hall
Whilst I stand there like pillar by the wall.

Some may say you are well beyond your prime
Close to the fifty past the forty nine
But you can move with people half your age
And on the dance floor the young ones you upstage.

You blond haired woman lovely to behold
Who would believe you're forty nine years old
The passing years and time you seem to cheat
There's years of dancing in your dancing feet.

You blond haired woman still so young at heart
You don't feel floor shy when the music start
You charm the men in Dalyston town hall
Whilst I stand there like pillar by the wall.

---

Rodani

by

Francis Duggan

What's got into young Rodani
He gives me the disapproving eye
A man in years but still a boy
Thoughts can be hid but eyes don't lie.

T'would seem to me that mister Rod
Think me son of a lesser god
His eyes his inner thoughts betray
They tell me what his tongue won't say.

In himself he takes too much pride
And his feelings he can't seem to hide
But it's not his fault he let you know
Those eyes his eyes they tell me so.

The inner thoughts one can control
But the eyes the mirror to the soul
The eyes speak what the tongue won't say
They give the hidden thought away.

And that's how t'is with Rodani
Who gives me the disapproving eye
A man in years but still a boy
Thoughts can be hid but eyes don't lie.

---

On the Finnow bridge at Drishane

by

Francis Duggan

Just down from the river bridge at Drishane Finnow and Blackwater meet
And in the wood the magpie chatters in the flat fields of Millstreet
And the autumn fade to winter and the hill wear hat of snow
But green spring will bring her flowers to summer and the seasons come and go.

On the Finnow bridge at Drishane on an evening in late spring
I would sit above the river listening to the goldfinch sing
And the nesting rooks were cawing in the gloaming of the day
And I fancy that I still can hear them in those woodlands far away.

From the river bridge at Drishane when november skies were gray
I could see the freckled salmon side by side on spawning bed they lay
And the hungry rooks were cawing high upon the leafless trees
Many years since then departed but time don't dim the memories.

From the Finnow bridge at Drishane I first saw the brown haired maid
Sitting by the leafy beech tree in the coolness of the shade
She was singing I remember 'Where the Blarney roses grow'
On that day of golden sunshine almost forty years ago.

From the finnow bridge at Drishane on an evening in july
I would sit and watch the brown trout leaping up to catch the fly
And though time and tide don't wait for any and the years slip quietly by
In the soul of gray haired fellow there is still a fresh faced boy.

On the finnow bridge at Drishane the young fellow sit and stare
As he take in the natural beauty all around him everywhere
On the trees new leaves are budding and the nesting songbirds sing
And he is learning about nature and the year is in her spring.

And he can hear the dipper singing where the gurgling rapids flow
And he is learning about nature and of nature there is much to know
And from the Finnow bridge at Drishane such great beauty he can see
Something he can keep forever as a treasured memory.

---

Simon

by

Francis Duggan

A poor enough fellow is Simon though he owns a half acre block
On hill off of Cape Paterson coast road about two miles from Inverloch
His block has a for sale sign on it for he can't afford to build there
He needs every dollar he can get since he has to live on welfare.

His ex wife claimed their house when they split up t'was given to her by the court
And she has to raise their three children she can't look to him for support
And he got the block by the ocean the block that he now has for sale
Don't ask Simon how he is feeling for he'll give you the sorriest tale.

Poor Simon for himself feels sorry and if you ask him how he feel
He will tell you how life is a bugger and has given him the rawest deal
And he'll complain of his ex wife Miranda and all that she has put him through
To him she's the world's worst person and he refers to her as the shrew.

But Simon he will never tell you how he beat his kids and his wife
And how they are better off without him and enjoy a happier life
Or of how he drank the most of his wages, No he won't tell you of his shame
And he has found himself a scapegoat Miranda his ex wife he blame.

Since the factory he worked in doors were closed he is in need of every cent
And for his one bedroom flat in Bayswater he struggles just to pay the rent
He bemoans his lack of good fortune and he says life to him is unfair
And he feels he is on the scrapheap condemned to a life on welfare.

If you ask Simon how his life is his bad fortune he will bewail
And of how his half acre block in South Gippsland he has offered for sale
And he will blame his ex wife Miranda for all the hard times he's been through
But that his problems are of his own making is one thing he won't tell you.

---

there's one greater than you

by

Francis Duggan

Out of the genius in your soul the artist in you grew
And others say how great you are whilst others whisper who
Painted the wood in autumn gold under sky so real and blue
But you'll remember won't you mate there's one greater than you.

The college dons with literary degrees have praised the poems you've wrote
And since you've won the literary prize you've become a famous poet
And people say how great you are and your type are so rare
But you'll remember won't you mate there's one better somewhere.

You are the football super star of your homeland the pride
And since your great goals in the world cup you are known world wide
It's been said your ego it has grown perhaps you ought be made aware
That you are not the world's best there is one greater player.

To find your very equal one might have to travel far
But there's always one greater than you though great indeed you are
And it's a great leveller to think there's one greater than I
But one day I may be the best if I give it my best try.

---

A February day in Archies Creek

by

Francis Duggan

A hot and humid afternoon again
And disappointment for all of those who wish for rain
The day is still and scarce a puff of breeze
And a forecast high of 35 degrees.

By the high road the paddocks looking brown
Of Archies Creek beyond Wonthaggi town
And the cattle in the shade of old gum stay
They do not graze in the hot sun of day.

You wave your hands before your face and eyes
To keep away the mozzies and the flies
And the marchfly a not so common sight
Who leave a stinging feeling when he bite.

A summer afternoon in february
It seems so warm at least too warm for me
I like temperatures of twenty to twenty three
Though many others of course see it differently.

The road through Archies Creek wind up and down
And from weeks of sun the high paddocks looking brown
And you wave your hands to keep the flies away
In Gippsland on a humid february day.

---

On meeting a friendly person

by

Francis Duggan

She smiled at me in such a friendly way
Saying is n't it a warm and pleasant day
A woman in her sixties one might say
She showed her years in wrinkles and in gray.

I would not feel inspired to write a rhyme
About one conceited and pretty and in her prime
For conceited people I do not wish to know
There is such joy in a friendly hello.

The great joy in her smile with me remain
And she's one I'd know were we to meet again
And who would wish to forget one so sweet
For people like her one don't often meet.

She smiled and greeted me at Richies Superstore
A woman I had never met before
And the joybells in my heart commenced to ring
At that smile which did not cost her anything.

---

The high bog road to Gneeves

by

Francis Duggan

Like ladder to the galaxy climbing upwards to the sky
The road to Gneeves bogland is narrow, rough and high
But from may to september much traffic up and down
To and from the flatlands that border Millstreet town.

From early May and onwards in warm days of the spring
The shlauns and peat cutting machines already in full swing
Families from Millstreet Parish in the bogland every day
Making fire fuel for the winter the winter cold and gray.

In Gneeves lonely bogland one morning in the spring
I heard a little skylark above the bracken sing
He sang above the low clouds as upwards he did fly
And the music from his tiny heart re-echoed in the sky.

What's not seen as significant and what others see as small
To me seems quite important and I can still recall
The sweet song of the skylark and the scent of freshly shlauned peat
In Gneeves mountain bogland in the Parish of Millstreet.

The Aussie fellow said to me mate you have got it wrong
Your memories are of a high bog road and of a skylark's song
Forget your boyhood memories mate your past forever dead
And think about your future and the days that are ahead.

Don't take from me my memories they are all that I have left
Of my very happy boyhood and without them I'd feel bereft
And the high bog road to Gneeves I see it every day
And I hear the skylark singing o'er the bracken far away.

---

Elvie

by

Francis Duggan

She talks of the country around Powlett river
And the highlands of south Gippsland gray to brown
And though her search for self betterment has brought her north to Sydney
She still remembers old Wonthaggi town.

For the past five years Elvie has lived in Sydney
And at twenty five a woman in her prime
She is doing quite well in Australia's largest city
And she has settled well though it took time.

For the first year she pined for old Wonthaggi
And for south Gippsland many miles away
But she feels happy that she overcame nostalgia
And she feels happy where she's at today.

But still she talks of Dalyston and Kilcunda
And of Cape Paterson the sea air and sea spray
And Inverloch where she and dad went fishing
And Tarwin Lower and the surf beach at Venus Bay.

Elvie feels happy with her lot in Sydney
With the better lifestyle and the higher pay
But still she often talks about south Gippsland
And her home town of Wonthaggi far away.

---

The Solicitor.

by

Francis Duggan

The son of a high court judge his family never poor
And he in his late twenties is financially secure
A young man with a bright future he has a law degree
And he's already near the top of the high social tree.

He is paid huge sums of money and money gives one power
And for his services he commands three hundred bucks an hour
He gets more than two thousand dollars for an eight hour working day
It seems a lot of money for anyone to pay.

Even if the government take a third in tax he is still doing quite okay
And he don't have to struggle like many do just to live from day to day
He gets paid more for one hour than many for a week do
In a world where many of hunger die he's one of the privileged few.

The worker dismissed by his ex boss has not been fully paid
And to come by wages due to him he applies for legal aid
But if he is refused legal aid and without legal support
He ought to cut his losses and forget about the court.

A solicitor he cannot afford to pay for to fight for him his case
And if he is refused legal aid the truth he has to face
That without legal assistance he may as well not sue
And his ex boss can keep the wages that to him are overdue.

He do not have to sweat and toil under an overseer
And he earns more for three weeks work than most do in a year
He works for corporations and they pay him willingly
And if I do seem jealous of him he won't be worrying about me.

---

To Alan O Connor a young K.R.R. fan

by

Francis Duggan

He was so young just fourteen years and he had one great dream
To play for Killarney Road Rovers the Millstreet soccer team
To play for Killarney Road Rovers and to prove himself a man
He loved the game, he loved his team and he was a Rovers fan.

But Alan did not get the chance to carve his own renown
In football field at Claraghatlea just west of Millstreet town
For Rovers in the Kerry league he'll not line out to play
An angel met him going to school and carried him away..

He did not live to ripe old age to slow and fade and die
His span was brief so very brief like rose flower of july
He did not live to fulfil his dream for Rovers play football
God needed him in Paradise and god know best of all.

But Alan will be still around when Rovers come to play
His ghost will be there watching them in field at Claraghatlea
And Rovers fans will talk about their star who would have been
The lad an angel took from Millstreet town when he was just fourteen.

---

On seeing an injured Silver Gull

by

Francis Duggan

He hopped on lake shore pity the poor thing
As he could not fly he had a drooping wing
And the future look bleak for bird that cannoy fly
And one more silver gull condemned to die.

The only gull in Lysterfield today
His flock not here his friends are miles away
His friends without him perhaps gone to see
Oh pity him he deserve sympathy.

He's lost the thing the sea bird most enjoy
The gift of flight the freedom of the sky
The freedom to come and go at his own whim
His drooping injured wing has grounded him.

He cannot fly some thirty miles or more
From his own natural home the ocean shore
A crippled bird his life draws to a close
As he can't escape now from his many foes.

For drooping wing with his life he will pay
As for dog or cat or fox he's easy prey
And pity him if just for pity sake
This injured seabird by an inland lake.

---

The Gippsland hills

by

Francis Duggan

The hills of Gippsland were so green but that was in september
And songbirds piping happy songs as well I might remember
But now the Gippsland hills are gray since sun changed the grass colour
And though the sun shines hot today this countryside looks duller.

The Gippsland hills were green in spring and grass growing winds were blowing
And all along the sunlit hills the wildering flowers were showing
And bell magpie piped his joyful notes and butcherbird was singing
And through those hills those happy hills the bushlark's voice went ringing.

The Gippsland hills the sunburnt hills grown lonelier and quieter
And like the shades of old man's hair they've turned a gray type whiter
The nearby creek in trickle flow, the birds have lost their voices
And not one of nature's minstrels now on Gippsland hills rejoices.

The Gippsland hills the sunburnt hills have lost their spring like colour
And though the sun shines hot today the Gippsland hills look duller
But spring bring green to Gippsland hills spring rains and soft winds blowing
And birds will sing on Gippsland hills and Gippsland creeks fast flowing.

---

I love these cool evenings

by

Francis Duggan

A pleasant though windy evening in early summer
And the roses in the breezes nod and sway
I feel grateful for such a pleasant evening
It was so warm and humid yesterday.

That's what I like about december weather
It can be warm for a week or more
Today we had a pleasant high of twenty
And yesterday a humid thirty four.

In the warm sunshine of yesterday the birds were singing
The blackbird whistled on the wattle tree
They seem to know when the cool change is coming
There's more to nature than the eye can see.

I love these cool evenings of december
The gardens looking greener after rain
The summer showers to say the least refreshing
And the currawong is singing once again.

A cool and windy evening in december
It makes a welcome respite from the heat
And the white backed magpie flutes his very finest
On the messmate in the park just off of the street.

---

When I am gone.

by

Francis Duggan

When I am gone on me don't waste a tear
For from where I lay your sobs I will not hear
And anyway tears never help the dead
So smile and think of better days ahead.

When I'm not here life it will carry on
And flowers will bloom in spring when I am gone
And birds will build their nests and lark will fly
Up from his nest to carol in the sky.

And river will flow on eternally
Through woods and groves and downland to the sea
And migratory bird will fly to far away
When leaves are falling and the skies are gray.

And in the night beneath a darkened sky
The rural man will hear the wild fox cry
In mid winter out searching for a mate
The urge is strong in him to re-create.

When I am gone there will be moths and bees
And in summer fruits will ripen on fruit trees
And I will be one more forgotten face
For there will be others to take my place.

---

In the fields of Carriganimma

by

Francis Duggan

In the fields of Carriganimma the gorse has lost it's gold
And last spring's lamb has fully grown and october getting old
And dunnock in the windblown hedge refuse to chirp and sing
And winter nearing every day and distant seems the spring.

And few wildflowers by the main road from Millstreet to Macroom
And in the village gardens there are no signs of bloom
And autumn leaves in wind and rain to mother earth drift down
And trees so green a few weeks back are turning russet brown.

The Carriganimma house wife she cooks her husband's tea
He should be home by 6 p.m. he works in Cork city
Their only child left home last year and she now lives far away
In distant California in the U.S of A.

like many more in the village their daughter did not stay
She followed oportunity to work for higher pay
But she will visit home next spring for a month or more she say
When the fields of Carriganimma scent of the blooms of May.

In the fields of Carriganimma the stream in flood bank high
And it has rained since mid morning and dark clouds in the sky
And dunnock in the windblown hedge refuse to chirp and sing
And winter nearing every day and distant seems the spring.

---

My Heroes

by

Francis Duggan

It should n't matter if you win or lose
And it should only matter how you play the game
Be fair to others and give all a fair go
And never call another out of name.

You are judged by your achievements and little else
And I ask you what's achievement any way?
For every winner thousands have to lose
But so few judge you on the way you play.

And what is success I am asking you?
To such in different ways one can relate
He or she work hard and always pay their way
Can you not say that he or she is not great?.

Can you not say that he or she are not as good
As the billionaire that they helped to create
But he's the one who gets your accolade
And he's the one whose name you celebrate.

The Politicians who bend and twist their words
And expect us to believe all they say
The hollywood identities and the British royals
We hear and read about them every day.

The top Sports People who make sporting headlines
Known millionaires and vast fortunes they have made
And yet some of them even got the cheek
To say that they are grossly underpaid.

And poor John down the road has to work hard
Just to pay his bills and keep his family
He may not have one dollar in a bank
But he's a success would you not agree?.

We read and hear about them every day
The rich and famous and the greedy few
But my heroes don't make the news headlines
And my heroes seem ordinary to you.

---

Davy Mac

by

Francis Duggan

I heard about the death of Dave Mcauliffe
The man we only knew as Davy Mac
I knew him since he first came south from Kiskeam
To live in Millstreet many decades back.

He was a character in all the best sense
And he had about him such a humorous way
It's sad to think that he is gone forever
But memories of him with us bound to stay.

For many years he liked the taste of porter
And he went close to self destruction brink
But Davy had the strength to kick the habit
And he was one who conquered demon drink.

But he was the same Davy drunk or sober
An easy going and very friendly bloke
He always entertained you with a story
Or had you laughing at a funny joke.

Another great character gone from Millstreet
But memories of the man will long remain
I've known him since I was a school going fellow
When he came down from his native Kiskeam.

And I still often think about my days in Millstreet
Before I left to take the wandering track
And the characters I knew some since departed
And one of those the well liked Davy Mac.

---

Briany

by

Francis Duggan

Briany that gray haired fellow his bronzed skin wrinkled and dry
He spent years north in the tropics where the sun burns in the sky
Shearing merinos for a living in Queensland north of Mackay
Sweating for his hard earned dollars in the heat of summer day.

Thirty years as a sheep shearer till he gave the job away
Shearing is for younger fellow that is what old Briany say
Look at me I'm not yet sixty I look older bald and gray
Good shearers may earn good money but they work hard for their pay.

Briany only talks of shearing when he has a few drinks in
If you ask him then he'll tell you I shore with the best of men
I could hold my own with any in the humid shearing shed
And I would say I had a poor day had I not shorn two hundred head.

I earnt big money when shearing but I was never money smart
Women and booze took my earnings 'a fool and his money part'.
Went to nearest town at weekend I had a week's pay to spend
Visited brothels and drank my wages and I was not short of a friend.

Briany the ex sheep shearer money could not seem to keep
And every dollar was hard earned it is hard work shearing sheep
He works in suburban factory I am happier now he say
Shearing is for younger fellow and that's why I gave it away.

---

White fronted chats

by

Francis Duggan

I see them often though not every day
The male with dark breast band and white, brown and gray
And the female plain as females often are
In birdsworld males the prettier birds by far.

Quiet little birds of late that I've come to know
You see them where rough grass and bracken grow
They search for their prey insects on the ground
And with nodding heads you see them walk around.

In paddocks not far from the ocean shore
The poets and painters them seem to ignore
As you approach them they rise up and fly
And 'White fronted chats' the name they are known by.

They build their cup shaped nest of grass and hay
On shrub and three or sometimes four eggs lay
Pale spotted eggs their nests are seldom found
Though shrubs and tussocks you may search around.

They are not common neither are they rare
And they have their places don't live everywhere
In paddocks not far distant from the sea
White fronted chats are birds one often see.

---

Suburban Woman

by

Francis Duggan

The sun behind the gray clouds hid away
Yet it is such a mild and balmy day
Not warm or cool with just the slightest breeze
Such lovely weather never fail to please.

Such heartfelt pleasure misnamed leisure hours
In her front garden watering her flowers
Suburban woman hums a catchy tune
A happy soul on a spring afternoon.

White butterflies around the roses play
Their life is brief five human years to a day
And wattlebirds croak on the flowering trees
In temperatures of near twenty degrees.

Noisy miners piping in the park nearby
And in and out of flowering gums the lories fly
And suburban woman know the bird by it's cry
And she loves nature and nature's beauty enjoy.

She waters her roses and her garden tend
And to Mother Nature she is a good friend
And harmful pesticides or noxious sprays she don't use
And of environmental damage her you can't accuse.

The blooming flowers and roses scenting sweet
In her front garden off of the busy street
And suburban woman hums a catchy tune
On a balmy october sunday afternoon.

---

To a new millionaire

by

Francis Duggan

I do not envy you your wealth and money
Since I've been told that you are a millionaire
You've made the top from your humble beginnings
And high achievers such as you are very rare

You've made it though the odds were stacked against you
The dark horse who has caused the big surprise
And I feel that congragulations are in order
To you on your business acumen and enterprise.

But if you've made it to the top by trodding upon others
And from others losses your fortune did grow
Then you should not feel proud of your achievements
And you are one I would not wish to know.

The millionaires are entitled to their fortunes
If they earn their millions in the honest way
But if they cheat and cause others to suffer
Then to karma there's a price for them to pay.

I don't begrudge the millionaires their money
For such small mindedness life is too brief
Though how some grow wealthy give rise for concern
Perhaps mine is an old fashioned belief.

I've heard that you are in the millionaires club
And what I've heard I assume to be true
May you grow wealthier and may you be happy
And may good health always remain with you.

---

On the death of Mother Teresa (9-97)

by

Francis Duggan

I heard the news this morning when I switched on the T.V.
Mother Teresa had passed away and of suffering was free
And though such sad tidings made me sad I felt no urge for tears
For one who had achieved so much in eighty seven years.

Don't weep for Mother Teresa for she is free of taint
In death she will be canonized in life she was a saint
A mother to the sufferers and a goddess to the poor
And history will be kind to her of that one can be sure.

Don't weep for Mother Teresa weep for her poor instead
Weep for the world's starving who cry aloud for bread
'And if you can afford to' honour her memory
By giving to her children those who know poverty.

Don't weep for Mother Teresa but her life celebrate
She will always be remembered her achievements were great
She did more than anyone did for the outcasts and downtrod
And the Nun from Albania was child of a greater God.

I heard the news this morning a sad start to the day
The goddess of the paupers from life had passed away
But don't weep for Mother Teresa weep for her poor instead
Weep for the world's starving who cry aloud for bread.

---

In Shoreham

by

Francis Duggan

In Shoreham in the wood beside the sea
The yellow robins there are almost tame
One of them perched on branch two foot from me
'If he could speak he'd say I'm glad you came'.

In Shoreham where the waves lap on the shore
Three red capped dotterels running up and down
The older male chase the juveniles away
'If he could speak he'd say I wear the crown'.

In Shoreham as the ocean waves retreat
The silver gulls devour invetebrates
'If they could speak they'd say these taste okay
But not as good as scraps off of human dinner plates'.

In Shoreham to her nest hole high in tree
The starling to her young with morsels fly
'If she could speak I'm sure she well might say
My children I can't please though hard I try'.

And in Shoreham I could only visualize
As I walked through the wood and by the sea
That if they could speak what they might have to say
Mother Nature's children the wild born and free.

---

David Dean

by

Francis Duggan

Young David Dean from Sturton Street safe in his prison cell
And prison the right place for him since he gave others hell
His addiction to narcotics led him to a life of crime
And for assault and robbery he now is serving time.

There is a price to pay for crime man punish man for sin
For robbing and bashing of the frail, old ladies and old men
And David Dean the bad young man a price too had to pay
He's been in prison for three years now 'he may be out by May'.

Though he comes from a good family and he's never known abuse
For drug taking that lead to crime there's always an excuse
He mixed with the wrong company and in life lost his way
But he will find the righteous path when he leaves jail he say.

For assaulting and robbing old people he feels remorse and shame
And he has vowed that from now on he won't demean his name
He can start on a new life outside the prison gate
For to find the path to righteousness it never is too late.

Young David Dean from Sturton Street is only twenty three
And he's in jail for taking drugs, assault and robbery
And he has vowed to make new start when he has served his time
And keep off drugs and alcohol that lead to life of crime.

---

The Indian Mynas

by

Francis Duggan

Their ancestors were brought to Australia from places far away
From foreign parts Calcutta and Delhi and Bombay
Familiar birds with a familiar call
The Indian Mynas known to one and all.

C.J.Dennis one of Australia's finer poets
About these birds one of his best poems wrote
He told of how the mynas lilt and play
And swagger down the sidewalks all the day.

Some people say the mynas are a pest
That they claim nest sites where some native birds nest
But in their coming to Australia they had no choice
And for man's mistake some natives pay the price.

On power lines, garden trees and fence and gate
They sing their songs all day till evening late
And at dawn of day to their notes I awake
You hear them once their voice you can't mistake.

Their ancestors brought from places far away
From distant towns Calcutta and Bombay
But Indian mynas no longer aliens here
As they've been around for many, many a year.

They sing their songs come hail rain or sunshine
These Asian mynas favourite birds of mine
You hear them once you know their voice again
Their distinct notes the memory retain.

---

Your life story ought be told

by

Francis Duggan

You have never been your country's President or won Olympic gold
But you too have a story and your story ought be told
You've took the good days with the bad and you've known life's ups and downs
And you too had your marvellous dreams of glory and renown.

You were not born a king or queen to sit upon a throne
But they are no different to you they too are flesh and bone
And you know more about life than them a gray rib for each day
And your life story would make a good read so much you'd have to say.

You have never been a movie star and the crowds don't chant your name
But you too are entitled to your great moment of fame
And though you've never beat the world's best and won Olympic gold
You too have great life story and your story ought be told.

---

City Man Goes Back To Country Boy

by

Francis Duggan

In New South Wales he spent his boyhood day
The little man with hair of silver gray
In paddock by his house the roos did play
And the nearest town was twenty miles away.

He likes to talk when he's had a few beers
And he tells the stories of his boyhood years
Between the towns of Gulgong and Mudgee
And he can go back more than half a century.

And in his heart he's still a country boy
And his stories of his youth I do enjoy
And as a boy I see him standing there
The golden sunshine on his dark brown hair.

His father was king of the shearing shed
And each day he shore he shore two hundred head
The greatest ever shearer in Mudgee
His shearing feats live on in memory.

He still recalls those happy days of spring
When whistler to their garden came to sing
The golden whistler beautiful to see
On wattle branch piped cheerful melody.

He likes to talk when he's had a few ales
About his childhood years in New South Wales
And the city man goes back to country boy
And his stories of his youth I do enjoy.

---

I am not nostalgic person.

by

Francis Duggan

I am not nostalgic person though my past still clings to me
And I still hear the chaffinch singing on the leafy alder tree
And though he sings in a green valley more than half a world away
He is near me very near me in my heart he sings today.

I am not nostalgic person though for my homeland I've shed tears
When I'd come home from the bar room and had drunk too many beers
And the next day I remember at my conduct I felt shame
And of course I found the scapegoat t'was the liquor was to blame.

I am not nostalgic person for my homeland I don't pine
It's a problem with some migrants but such problem is not mine
If I constantly felt homesick I would buy my ticket home
But I harbour no such feelings and nostalgia I've outgrown.

I am not nostalgic person I am not afraid to say
That I like the land I live in though my homeland's far away
But I still can hear the dipper where the river meets the rill
And I still can hear the skylark pipe above the bracken hill.

I am not nostalgic person I don't pine for my homeland
But why some people feel so homesick not so hard to understand
In their new land they can't settle 'for awhile I felt that way'
But the yearning that I felt then with me did not seem to stay.

---

Woodland woman

by

Francis Duggan

Down by her woodland cottage the creek it trickles slow
And she lives close to nature and there's little she don't know
About the birds and animals that in the woodland dwell
And even by their call or song each creature she can tell.

When darkness cloaks the woodland she can hear the boobook's call
And the brush tail possum hissing on the tree by garden wall
And the tawny frogmouth humming in the cool and freshening breeze
And the noisy cicadas shrilling on high up leaves of the trees.

And the male koala calling and his voice so coarse to hear
And grey kangaroo is coughing in the clearing somewhere near
And male wombats snarl and grizzle in a territorial fight
And she know each living creature that calls out in the night.

And when dawn comes to the woodland kookaburras voice ring out
And the blackbirds and the magpies can be heard for miles about
And the butcherbird is piping and the great grey currawong
Is heralding the morning with his so familiar song.

And the yellow robin carol and the bell like voices ring
Of lovely crimson rosellas as they chatter and they sing
And the green bell miners belling like a tiny one tone bell
And the blue wrens and the fantails all these birds she know so well.

Down by her woodland cottage the creek it trickles slow
And she lives close to nature and there's not much she don't know
About the birds and animals that in the woodland dwell
And even by their call or song each creature she can tell.

---

To the Yarra river

by

Francis Duggan

From the snow hills of Mt Baw Baw in your cloak of gray to brown
Through the scrublands and the paddocks and through many country town
All the way through Melbourne city where you back up and move slow
And you travel at a snail's pace as near to the sea you flow.

You've been travelling forever for how long god only know?
Long before black man first saw you sixty thousand years ago
And from tribe of 'Yarra Yarra' came your indigenous name
And your name of Yarra river ever with you will remain.

If you could talk Yarra river you'd go down the centuries
Long before the white man's coming when this land was full of trees
And you'd tell about the white man how he cut the tall gums down
And he sacrificed the forest for to build a concrete town.

And you could go back much further way back down the centuries long
On your banks the black tribes gathered for to party and sing song
You have known so many changes as the centuries come and go
But through droughts and long hot summers you have never ceased to flow.

Before coming of dinosaur before birth of first gum tree
All the way down from Mt Baw Baw on your journey to the sea
Through the scrublands and the paddocks and through many country town
And through Melbourne to Port Phillip in your cloak of gray to brown.

---

You laugh the world laugh with you

by

Francis Duggan

You laugh the world laugh with you, you cry you cry alone
An old saying still quite relevant and it's relevance well known
You feel down and dejected don't seem to have a mate
But when you feel in joyous mood with you they celebrate.

You laugh the world laugh with you the world a happier place
And people feel attracted to bright and happy face
But you look sour and moody you've had a rotten day
They do not wish to know you they look the other way.

You laugh the world laughs with you your friends they multiply
And everyone seems happy you spread the gift of joy
But if you feel sad and teary eyed few stop to say hello
They too have their own problems and your's don't wish to know.

You cry and none cry with you. you laugh the world laugh too
And we make our own happiness so happen to be true
A smile won't cost you money for such you do not pay
So smile and say good morning and make somebody's day.

---

Richard

by

Francis Duggan

The most important to him are I, myself and me
And he feels so 'hard done by' he craves for sympathy
My heart goes out to Richard he does n't have a mate
But there's a few around the place that he has grown to hate.

Whenever I meet Richard I feel so pressed for time
I cannot bear long with him he likes to have a whine
He feels the world's against him he's down on human kind
He sees the faults in others but to his own seem blind.

He's twenty five and single he holds down a good job
And he ought to feel so lucky he's not short of a bob
But Richard is a whinger he whinges all the time
And he would be in prison now if whinging was a crime.

Why is he so unhappy I've often wondered why
Perhaps his problems go back to when he was a boy
He may have had tough childhood 'a victim of abuse'
For weird and strange behaviour there must be some excuse?.

His bank account is growing he's not been known to spend
And his favourite one liner is 'my pocket is my friend'
And though financially he's well off his problems seem no less
And money won't buy his greatest need the gift of happiness.

Whenever I meet Richard I give him little time
He would be in confinement now if whinging were a crime
He feels the world's against him his money is his mate
And there's a few he say he know that he has grown to hate.

---

Bush Peter

by

Francis Duggan

He seldom talks about his past nor pines for what has been
And green hills beyond Toora to him don't sem so green
Down at the pub he socialize though most times he seems shy
And in his heart he'll always be a fresh faced country boy.

On gum tree by his father's house the magpie often sang
And in the Paddocks roundabout the voice of bushlark rang
But he was never nature loving boy or so he will tell you
He'd much prefer to watch the strippers in the pub at Kew.

At the Clifton hotel after work with pot of beer in hand
By table where the strippers dance at back of queue he stand
To the encouragement of rough shod men the stripper sheds her clothes
And what is running through his mind the good god only knows.

He's twenty seven years old and he's never had a wife
And he'd much prefer his freedom and his seedier way of life
And without woman to cheat on he live the way he choose
And he spends most of his earnings in the brothels and the booze.

Bush Peter is first to admit that he's not squeaky clean
And since he left the Toora hills in strange places he's been
He's either in the Clifton pub or house of ill renown
Perhaps the brothel in Melbourne known as 'top of the town'.

But he's an honest sort of bloke and for what he want he pay
And if every man were like him then this world would be okay
And women would not feel afraid to leave their homes at dark
To walk the dim lit alley way or unlit city park.

He seldom talk about his past or pine for what has been
And green hills beyond Toora to him don't seem so green
He'd rather be at Clifton pub with a beer can in his hand
By table where the strippers dance at back of queue he stand.n

---

A fellow from the Cork and Kerry border

by

Francis Duggan

A fellow from the Cork and Kerry border
From the mountain road that leads to the old Paps of Shrone
The mountain air was clean and unpolluted
But there was no gold between the het and stone.

There was no gold under the rocks of Cladoch
Or in the stream by Caherbarnagh hill
And summer days were seldom ever sunny
And autumn rains the dykes and drains did fill.

Raised on his father's small farm by the mountain
But by the mountain he would never stay
He dreamt of places distant from Sliabh Luachra
And sunlit cities miles and miles away.

His brother stayed on the small farm by the mountain
And he went off in pursuit of his dreams
And on cypress tree by his old home the robin carol
And the dippers still sing in the mountain streams.

He still has got a strong Sliabh Luachra accent
Despite his years of absence from that place
But to look at him you'd swear he was an Aussie
The gray haired fellow with the sun bronzed face.

A long way to the Cork and Kerry border
From Cape Paterson in South Gippsland by the sea
He lives with his wife in bungalow by the ocean
And where he lives is where he's meant to be.

A fellow from the Cork and Kerry border
He looks an Aussie by his sun bronzed face
But when he speaks his accent not Australian
And then you know that he's from a distant place.

---

Sara Hobbs Connor

by

Francis Duggan

A long long way from England from her old stomping ground
The gipsy blood is in her she likes to get around
She has a son and husband by duty she is bound
But the place she'd like to live in perhaps she has not found.

She lives at upper Gully but she'd like to live elsewhere
Perhaps in Northern New South Wales she says she likes it there
In Upper Ferntree Gully she would not like to grow old
Victoria's winter weather that little bit too cold.

Her bubbling English accent you notice right away
A woman like Sara Hobbs Connor you don't meet every day
She must have gipsy blood in her, her skin is gipsy brown
And she never goes un-noticed when she is in the town.

She tells this little story about her friend John Magee
The 'pooka' on his shoulder she says she often see
The leprechaun from Ireland that with the singer stay
And came with him across the world to places far away.

She sees on Johnny's shoulder a fellow green and small
She has imagination the greatest gift of all
She sees what I could never see I feel I must be blind
I envy Sara her great gifts not many of her kind.

Just like a gipsy goddess her hair blowing in the breeze
She hear the fairies fluting on the acacia trees
She sees what others cannot see the elves and fairies small
And she has imagination the greatest gift of all.

---

Gippsland Drought.

by

Francis Duggan

The farmers not too happy and the price of cattle down
And the hills above Wonthaggi are looking dry and brown
And the parched paddocks of Gippsland are crying out for rain
But the forecast for the coming week is warm and dry again.

In four months of warm weather just two hours of rainfall
And I spoke to octogenarian and she can well recall
Seventy five Gippsland summers when brown replace the green
But hills above Wonthaggi the brownest she has seen.

High above the sunlit paddocks the welcome swallows fly
As forecasters of the weather they never seem to lie
The bees and flies they feed on with rising temperatures high
And far closer to Mother Earth whenever rain is nigh.

From drought or from long warm spells or call it what you may
Those hills above Wonthaggi are looking brown today
And the parched paddocks of Gippsland are crying out for rain
But the forecast for the coming week is warm and dry again.

---

The Yobbo

by

Francis Duggan

The Yobbo takes his mates out for a drive
And the faster he accelerate the greater is their thrill
The other motorists at the speed limit drive
And he pass them as if they were standing still.

His mates drink beer and urge their driver on
But he has the accelerator pedal to the floor
He speeds on at one hundred and sixty K's an hour
And he's never gone as fast as this before.

He reach home safely luck is on his side
But things might have been different had the road been wet
He had shown his mates how fast his car could go
But once too often he will dice with death.

One day he'll take his mates out for a drive
And it well may be the last one they will take
At speeds of one hundred and sixty K's an hour
One only has to make a slight mistake.

The yobbo takes his mates out for a drive
And there is none who dare drive fast as he
But death is only one mistake away
And yet the danger he don't seem to see.

---

I fancy I can see you old Duhallow

by

Francis Duggan

I fancy I can see you old Duhallow
The swallows o'er your fields wing to and fro
And cows from wintering houses out on pasture
And birds are whistling on the green hedgerow.

I lay upon the bracken slopes of Clara
I see the Kerry hills beyond Rathmore
A skylark sing above the silent mountain
His song bring back to me the joys of yore.

You wear your green cloak of the spring Duhallow
And your beauty from the mountain side I see
From Millstreet to Kanturk on towards Newmarket
Kiskeam to Cullen and up to Knocknagree.

I often think about you green Duhallow
You were the first great love I ever knew
But many others loved you better than I
And they feel quite content to live with you.

I fancy I can see you old Duhallow
In your green groves the wild birds nest and sing
And swallows fly above your fields and meadows
And cuckoo pipes his fanfare of the spring.

---

The Miners of Lightning Ridge

by

Francis Duggan

Robert Service and Jack London poems and stories wrote and told
Of their great days in the Yukon when men risked their all for gold
When they flocked up to the bleak north braved the winter ice and snow
For to make an instant fortune back a century ago.

They told in their poems and stories of hardships some did endure
Men who dreamt of instant fortunes but were destined to be poor
For the few who struck it lucky many worked for years in vain
And the stories of their heartbreaks to this day with us remain.

And though that was in the Yukon years ago and far away
Similarities still occuring in northern New South Wales today
To Lightning Ridge the town of opal and for many miles around
People come to seek their fortune mining opals from the ground.

Though the climate far different to the Yukon for the most part warm and dry
Mining for opals rough and hard work under hot Australian sky
And though hard work can be off putting a thing many don't enjoy
People mine because of their dreams as they did in days gone by.

From the opal fields of Lightning Ridge in north central New South Wales
Heard of sorrows and disappointments and not all of those were tales
Like the man who mined for thirty years in the blistering sun shine
And who died sudden of a heart attack whilst labouring in his mine.

Thirty years mining for opals and he still died poor and broke
And it's been said that Vincent De Paul paid to bury the poor bloke
Dreams of fortunes kept him going he was one of many who
Dreamt of untold wealth from opals but did not see their dreams come true.

And poor Johnny the ex miner he will never mine again
He has fallen into poor health and only the memories remain
Of what might have been or should be but just was n't meant to be
Once Lightning Ridge's most experienced miner now he lives in poverty.

But amongst the disapointments one great story I did hear
About the woman opal miner she'd been mining for a year
Till she found a precious opal to a Hong Kong buyer she sold
And she got one million dollars for it so the story has been
told.

Robert Service and Jack London wrote of men who mined for gold
And from Lightning Ridge in New South Wales similar stories can be told
Of those who mine for opals of the many only few
Who have seen their dreams of fortune out of sweat and toil come true.

---

On seeing a pair of Powerful Owls

by

Francis Duggan

They seldom venture out in light of day
And from the sun they hide themselves away
And I have only seen two I recall
High on a tree in Selby at nightfall.

In the torch beam their large and yellow eyes
Blinked constantly in wondrous surprise
And they seemed far more puzzled than afraid
And on high branch where they had perched they stayed.

With streaks of brown all through their plain gray breast
Perhaps formidable the word to describe them best
And stripes of gray through wings and back of brown
For their rarity alone they've earnt renown.

The brush and ring tail possum cringe in fear
Whenever voice of powerful owl they hear
They seek dense cover and hide themselves away
From Australia's largest nocturnal bird of prey.

Their chilling calls re-echo in the night
As they hunt in darkened wood when all is quiet
And wood bird start from sleep at dreaded sound
The Powerful Owl the killer is around.

Their yellow eyes blinked in beam of torch light
But they stayed put they did not take to flight
They were confused but they seemed unafraid
And on high branch where they had perched they stayed.

---

A winter day in Sherbrooke

by

Francis Duggan

The cold winds howl in the woodlands and the crow like pied currawongs
Sing and whistle on the high gums they have been piping all day long
And when the currawongs are singing rain is never far away
You can bank on rain tomorrow if it does n't rain today.

A cold wind blow down through Tecoma and across south Belgrave hill
And the kookaburras laughter has never sounded quite so shrill
They call to mark their borders and to instil in others fear
And they always laugh their loudest when storm and rain is near.

A winter day in Sherbrooke the wind howl in the trees
It is woolly jumper weather just a high of ten degrees
And the nights are close to zero and jack frost is in the air
And the migratory birds in Queeensland for the warmer winter there.

And the creek is flowing bank high where it once did trickle slow
And on the bank the grass lay flatened where the flood did overflow
Last weekend we had the solstice the winter's shortest day
And though the spring it may seem distant it is not that far away.

Five miles distant in Olinda they already had some snow
And uphill from Tecoma the chill winds of winter blow
And the storm water flowing bank high in the creek and roadside drain
And the currawongs are piping some call them the birds of rain.

---

The eastern Swamphen

by

Francis Duggan

Invertebrates and slugs and such they eat
The water birds with big and ugly feet
You know them by their wild and distinct cry
And their legs are always dangling as they fly.

Related to but larger than moorhen
And with coots, rails and crakes they too share common kin
In or near water they are known to stay
And from lake or pond they won't be far away.

Midst water reeds they build their nests of reeds and grass
No work of art just an untidy mass
And three up to five eggs the female lay
With brown spots through the lightish buff to gray.

With purple under black and red on face
And flicking tails familiar to their race
Birds when once seen you never could mistake
They roost in ponds or reedy swamp or lake.

If danger threaten to water they retreat
The water birds with big and ugly feet
And you know them by their wild and distinct cry
And their legs are always dangling as they fly.

---

Message in a bottle

by

Francis Duggan

The magpie larks in the mid morning calling
And sun and wind promise a balmy day
And old Fred with his blue heeler out walking
The shingled shore along the sunlit bay.

From amongst the shingle he picks up a bottle
A brown corked bottle washed up in the tide
He opened it to find page of note paper
Neatly folded with message scrawled inside.

The message read 'Dear Fred I truly love you
And I'll always love you as my true soul mate
I know the waves will bring this message to you
Sealed with a kiss from your beloved Kate'.

The letter in black ink was clearly dated
July the twentieth nineteen forty two
A message from his dark haired blue eyed Katie
In all his years the greatest love he knew.

She must have thrown the bottle in at Sydney
Whilst he fought in the trenches far away
In hope by chance it might reach him in Europe
But message in a bottle went astray.

His darling Kate was that sort of a woman
She had the positive approach to life
His love for her sustained him in the trenches
The dream that one day she would be his wife.

He returned to Sydney when the war was over
He went to Kate's house but she was not there
Her tearful mother told him of her daughter
She's in the cemetery 'life seems unfair'.

In her letters to him she had not mentioned of her illness
As she did not want to grieve him with heartache
She knew how hard life must be in the trenches
So she kept it from him only for his sake.

Message in a bottle on beach in South Australia
Found by the one t'was meant for just by chance
Left by the tide after years of sea travel
Who said there's no such thing as circumstance?.

At mid morning the magpie larks were calling
And sun and wind gave promise of nice day
When old Fred found his message in the bottle
On shingle as he walked beside the bay.

---

Empty moments

by

Francis Duggan

Did you ever feel so empty that you pondered in despair
About life and about living and at the wall you stand and stare
And of emotions your soul empty of anger, laughter, joy or tears
And you feel your life's been wasted you reflect on wasted years.

Of the opportunities you wasted and of such you've had your share
And you left your chances go by at the time you did n't care
But the years keep creeping on you time for anyone don't wait
And you feel your time drawing nearer to the dreaded 'use by date'.

It may be some consolation to know you are not alone
That the empty sort of feeling many others too have known
And like you they feel without hope staring at the bedroom wall
It's just part of human nature you are human after all.

Empty moments we experience after years of trying to cope
After years of trying to struggle up life's never ending slope

and our better years behind us and our hopes for success gone
But the will to live is stronger and it keeps us keeping on.

So you have known those empty moments you are not one of the few
And if it serves as a consolation others have those moments too
There are times we feel so empty we stand staring at the wall
But it's part of our existence we are human after all.

---

Pete

by

Francis Duggan

Most say he is a hero but I'll leave that up to you
For Pete himself say what he did anyone else might do
The young girl in the river fell the water flowed bank high
He swam in and he dragged her out he could have watched her die.

The only child of wealthy man that Pete had grown to hate
Which goes to prove the well known quote 'your foe could be your mate'
He could have stood and watched her die and for excuse use 'dread'
I just done what anyone might do and little more he said.

He saved the child of Dr George by risking his own life
The drunken man that drove the car that killed Rosie his wife
At a pedestrian crossing his darling died a case of hit and run
But due to lack of evidence Doc was cleared though awful wrong he'd done.

He raise his daughters on his own one eight the other nine
For months they missed their mother so and for her they did pine
And though they outlived Rosie's loss the great healer is time
Pete still feels angry that the Doc did not pay for his crime.

He risked his life that one might live such sacrifice to make
And she the daughter of the man who caused him much heartache
He should be honoured in some way for act of bravery
And what seems no big deal to him seems very great to me.

He dived into the raging flood the river flowed bank high
And swam and dragged the young girl out he could have watched her die
And most say he's a hero but I'll leave that up to you
For Pete himself say what he did anyone else might do.

---

They will only see decay

by

Francis Duggan

It's not easy to live decent in society of today
Some may look on you as soft touch and see you as easy prey
Some may see you as 'meal ticket' and advantage of you take
And say to themselves this one's easy as easy as a 'piece of cake'.

It's not easy do the right thing if some say with you something wrong
There's a few though not so many who see weakness in the strong
They can't see the good in goodness their thoughts move in strangest way
You show them a flowering garden they will only see decay.

It's not easy be good person whilst others are doubting you
You say there's a man of honour they will argue that's not true
They will say he's feeling guilty for some wrong or some past sin
With doubt's shadow always on you it is never easy win.

You may give alms to the needy you may feed the hungry mouth
But there's always some who search for weakness and they sow the seeds of doubt
If you work for love of others and never think of your own gain
They will think you are a bit soft and they will wonder are you sane?.

You may give your time to others some may call you living saint
But you'll find the few who doubt you and say you're not free of taint
They can't see the good in goodness their thoughts move in strangest way
You show them a flowering garden they will only see decay.

---

An Inspirational Woman.

by

Francis Duggan

With stooped shoulders and hair more white than gray
She shuffles to the milk bar every day
And nod her head in greeting say hello
To those she know or feel that she may know.

On her next birthday she will be ninety three
And her dearest wish to reach her century
A century of years well worth a toast
And a feat of which so very few can boast.

She came from hills of distant Pakistan
And settled here and wed an Aussie man
And he passed on some fifteen years ago
But she still live and not much she don't know.

For many years a devoted mother and wife
And she has known the ups and downs of life
And her son she has not seen for many years
But she feels now she's had enough of tears.

The good days and the bad days she has seen
But she say this the happiest she has ever been
And she look to the future years in hope
And age no burden she know how to cope.

So far away from Asia she will die
And her ashes spread beneath Australian sky
This woman from the hills of Pakistan
And widow of Australian working man.

---

Nicky

by

Francis Duggan

I saw him on the street this morning and he looked a sorry sight
He had stiches in his eyebrows he was in another fight
He always wears the scars of battle after night out on pub crawl
He's not learnt from experience some don't ever learn at all

He is two or three with fifty those who know him better say
And he has not learnt from experience Nicky's always been this way
He's okay till he takes whiskey, whiskey goes straight to his head
Cannot teach an old dog new tricks wiser words have not been said.

Drink has caused his marriage breakup Eliza to him was good wife
But he was the cruelest husband he gave her the hardest life
She was often seen with black eyes some poor women know it tough
And from him she copped many beatings till she cried enough's enough.

She left and with her took their children that was many years ago
And to where she went and where she live now few if any seem to know
Some say she has since re-married others say that is n't so
And of Nicky's wife Eliza speculation seem to grow.

Those who know the worthy woman said for her t'was lucky day
That she went with son and daughter and took a trip to far away
She had grown to detest Nicky and of his beatings she was free
And for herself and her young children a future elsewhere she could see.

For his fondness of hard liquor Nicky still is paying the price
But he warrant little pity after all he has a choice
Drink an enemy to many and it has been Nicky's downfall
And he wears the scars of battle the day after his pub crawl.

---

Nancy Gray

by

Francis Duggan

Only knew she never married dear kind hearted Nancy Gray
And never thought that she had children but that's not so one known to say
One who know her better than I say that Nancy had a son
But that he never came home to her when the battle had been won.

I've been told that her son David fought and died in world war 2
And that he was hailed as a hero he who told me swore t'was true
And that his grief torn mother Nancy said he threw his life away
And that she'd march against warfarers till her own departure day.

Her son lost his life in battle and in tears poor Nancy paid
And she did not watch the victory celebrations when the troops went on parade
Her son David was a hero for the noble way he died
But she wished him alive and happy and in death she saw no pride.

At anti war and nuclear protests brave old Nancy always there
She has known the grief that war bring and she has suffered her own share
And she has vowed to fight the war dogs long as life in her remain
They had caused her so much sorrow and from her son's death they did gain.

She must be close to if not ninety dear kind hearted Nancy Gray
And every time I chance to meet her she will wave and say good day
And often spoken at length to her but I've never heard her say
That her son died in the trenches fighting half a world away.

One who know her better than I told me of all she has been through
And of the son she loved and cherished who died back in world war 2
And every time I chance to meet her I don't see age or decay
Only see a living heroine dear kind hearted Nancy Gray.

---

The ballad of Oscar Romero

by

Francis Duggan

His only crime was to live good and decent
And the day he was murdered a dream was destroyed
He stood by El Salvador's poor and downtrodden
And he lived for the people and for them he died.

History will be kind to Oscar Romero
And memories of him won't fade with passage of time
And may god in his forgiveness forgive the man's killers
If they seek forgiveness for their awful crime.

History will be kinder to Oscar Romero
More to those than who took his life away
His only crime was to stand by the people
But look at the price the great man had to pay.

Murdered in church where he often did worship
And where all of his people assembled to pray
El Salvador has it's black days of sorrow
But death of Romero still it's blackest day.

Murdered because he spoke for oppressed people
Murdered because of the truth that he spoke
He spoke for human rights, freedom and justice
And by torture and beatings he could not be broke.

They gave to El Salvador a great martyr
Oscar Romero is to be a saint
He died because he spoke out for his people
And only the purest can die free of taint.

His is a story for bards and for writers
Here is a man who deserve all his fame
And those who came and murdered him in his chapel
Gave to Romero an immortal name.

His only crime was to live good and decent
And the day he was murdered a dream was destroyed
He stood by El Salvador's poor and downtrodden.
And he lived for the people and for them he died.

---

Just a small house by the ocean

by

Francis Duggan

He has one wish for the future a small house beside the sea
Where the wild waves of pacific keep on rumbling ceaselessly
Phillip Island or San Remo, Cape Paterson or Inverloch
Just a small house by the ocean on a quarter acre block.

He's in love with coast of Gippsland under unpolluted skies
One hundred miles from inner Melbourne and the smoke and traffic noise
To sit on rocks beside the ocean watch the wild waves swirl and roll
In his dreams the salt sea water washes through his sleeping soul.

But he honour his commitments two young daugthers and pregnant wife
And the hard job that he work at keep him tied to city life
He toils as a builder's labourer with jack hammer all day long
And he ask himself the question tell me god where I went wrong?.

Who knows sometime in the future he may see his wish come true
buy a small house by the ocean do the things he want to do
Sit on rocks above the foreshore feel contentment in his soul
Listen to the seagulls calling, watch the wild waves swirl and roll.

---

The Olive Backed Oriole

by

Francis Duggan

The olive backed oriole has a distinct song
You hear him once you ought not get him wrong
His notes don't vary much from day to day
And flute like are the little tunes he play.

With streaked grey breast and upper parts light green
In forest foliage not quite easily seen
But the song tell of where the bird might be
Perhaps on outer branch of higher tree.

I see them in the wood on Selby hill
The female carried lichen in her bill
Material for her nest it would appear
On slender outer branch and somewhere near.

They migrate through Australia up and down
And their eggs cream coloured spotted lightish brown
And they journey north when southern winds blow cold
And they eat fruit and large insects I've been told.

They come to Selby wood in latter spring
And all through the day you hear them lilt and sing
And in their cup shaped nest on outer branch of tree
They lay their eggs and raise their family.

---

John if only

by

Francis Duggan

They call him 'John if only' these words he often say
If only I were wealthy I dream about that day
I'd travel all around the world to places far away
But I am just a poor bloke so here I live and stay.

If only I won lotto I can only visualize
A three million dollar jackpot I long for such surprise
I often buy a ticket but my luck is never in
If only and if only that jackpot I could win.

If only Dad were wealthy a multi millionaire
But he is always short of cash this life is so unfair
I'd like a million dollars in the bank and having said that two
And I dream of winning lotto but dreams seldom come true.

I envy Jamie Packer he is the chosen one
But I only envy him because he's Kerry Packer's son
And though Kerry looks quite ugly I wish he were my Dad
Some say be happy with your lot for what should I feel glad?

They call him 'John if only' and he warrant his nickname
And that he's not a wealthy man if only is to blame
If only he were wealthy he dream about that day
He'd travel all around the world to places far away.

---

Susan

by

Francis Duggan

She grew tired of outback living tired of paddocks flat and brown
And she resolved to move to Sydney live and work in the big town
The nearest village two miles south east a milk bar and pub with T.A.B.
Surely there was more in Sydney more to do and more to see.

Tired of life as farmer's daughter of working with sheep and steers
She'd been helping out her dad and brother for what to her seemed many years
She was twenty getting older time to make fresh start elsewhere
Sydney beckoned and she answered she would go to live up there.

Packed her suitcase one May morning hugged her mum and dad goodbye
Mother sobbed keep in touch Susan hope you won't be letter shy
Her brother Tom drove her to bus stop partings always seem so sad
She would miss the farm, her brother and she would miss her mum and dad.

Went to live in southern Sydney found a job in factory
But she found it hard to settle she pined for her family
With new found friends she went to night clubs she was in bad company
And she was introduced to heroin and danger signs she could not see.

She was befriended by drug pushers she had met up with the wrong type
And lonely young woman from outback for the soul destroyers seemed ripe
Lost her job and life's direction walked the streets for higher pay
Lost her innocence and beauty and quickly went into decay.

An outback mum and dad still waiting as the days and months go by
For a letter from their daughter she's grown pen and paper shy
What has happened to our Susan she's not written for three years
Sobs her sad and worried mother as she wipes away her tears.

She grew tired of outback living tired of paddocks flat and brown
And she resolved to move to Sydney live and work in the big town
And by night she walks the streets of King's Cross she don't
venture out by day
And her innocence has left her and her beauty in decay.

---

Honest Peter

by

Francis Duggan

I will try to tell a story as I heard the story told
About Peter who hailed from Hong Kong he was three decades old
He lived south east of Melbourne for just two years or so
And that will take us back in time to about eight years ago.

He fell in love with an Australian but she did not reciprocate
She wanted him just as a friend but not as a soul mate
And love that is not mutual can give rise to heartache
And pain of such must be quite hard so very hard to take.

And though time the healer soothed his sense of pain of loss
Peter was to find out later that life comes with more than one cross
His visa had expired and he had over stayed his stay
And a 'judas' he had confided in gave his whereabouts away.

Betrayed by one he worked with one he trusted as good friend
By one he thought was on his side and on whom he could depend
But thought can make a fool of us and thought proved Peter wrong
And the authorities came and arrested him and sent him back to Hong Kong.

This story that was told to me and that I told to you
May seem a tale of fiction but so happen to be true
About honest Peter from Hong Kong naive in his own way
He only loved and trusted but such price he had to pay.

---

For to reclaim the night

by

Francis Duggan

They march uptown for to reclaim the night
Carrying lighted candles and small battery hand lights
Their peaceful protest for basic human right
And in solidarity you will find much might.

They march for women house bound after dark
Who after sundown shun the street and park
Who bolt their doors a shield against their fear
The fear of danger to them ever near.

They march for women for a crime free life
For the rape victim and the battered wife
And for women wronged by men in every way
Such cases as we read of every day.

When Emily Pankhurst at Epsom race track died
Her sacrifice for women world wide
From there the fight for women's rights began
For all those suffering at the hands of man.

The anti women libbers well might say
That women nowadays have things their own way
But women still victims of rape and foul play
Such stories in newspapers every day.

And till women after sundown leave their home
And without fear walk unlit street alone
Then women must march to reclaim the night
And protest for a basic human right.

---

Jama

by

Francis Duggan

Jama is an African from Somalia far away
I'm black and I am proud of it he has been known to say
In boots he stand seven foot in bare feet six foot ten
And six footers beside him seem only little men.

He left his home in Mogadishu when he was just eighteen
The wanderlust was in him the far off hills looked green
Like many more before him he hit the wandering track
And now he's twenty nine years old and he has not been back

To Mogadishu city the place he still call home
That feeling of nostalgia he still has not outgrown
On friday at the local he sit and drink his beers
And sing songs of Somalia and talk of boyhood years.

His wife a fair skinned Aussie their two growing sons chocolate brown
And they will be tall like daddy the tallest boys in town
And Jama loves his children and he loves his Aussie wife
And he admits Australia has a better way of life.

And all those who know Jama have only good to say
Of this gentle giant from Africa Somalia far away
Six foot ten in his bare feet in some ways he seems shy
His big heart full of kindness he would not harm a fly.

---

Love Song

by

Francis Duggan

When the flowers bloom on the rhododendron tree
And the parkland wear it's finest greenery
And the shrike thrush pipe his sweetest melody
Then I know you'll return again to me.

The cold wet winter slowly drags it's way
And sunshine seldom shine through clouds of gray
But spring draws nearer with each passing day
And you'll return again to Invermay.

When the black duck swim with her young family
And the parrot nest in hole in old gum tree
And the migrant bird fly south above the sea
Then I know you'll return again to me.

When the seagull nest on cliff above the bay
And the blackbird has his sweetest tune to play
And the songbirds chorus greet the dawning day
Then you'll return this time with me to stay.

---

The Gambler

by

Francis Duggan

He bet five hundred for a win the horse beat by a head
But it did not seem to bother him 'no luck this one he said'
He backed the favourite in the race at odds of five to ten
And he has a tip for the next race he feels this horse will win.

I bet because I like to bet he has been known to say
And if you can't accept your losses why gamble anyway?
If he has had a losing day Tim Ryan feels no remorse
It does n't seem to bother him to have backed the beaten horse.

Since he left west Cork years ago he's placed many big bet
And his advice 'dry tracker seldom go well in the wet
And horses who are good first up at their first up you back
And every horse that ever raced have their own favourite track'.

I always thought gamblers go broke as many of them do
But Tim Ryan the biggest that I know has proved my thoughts untrue
He's been big gambler all these years but still he is not broke
And if the horse he bet on lose about it he can joke.

The only big gambler that I know has gambled big for years
And if the horse he bet on lose in him no sign of tears
Many big gamblers end their lives when with their losses they can't cope
But Tim Ryan bigger man than that he has great faith in hope.

To Tim Ryan

---

The Bush Stone Curlew

by

Francis Duggan

Weerloo weerloo a bird's voice in the night
Weerloo weerloo again then all is quiet
A bird the bushman hear but seldom see
They call them bush stone curlew or thick knee.

Gray brown in looks and about curlew siz