A memory of destroyed beauty

by

Francis Duggan

It was the Cork County Council I remember
Who cut the small wood by our house away
They did it for the purpose of road widening
But what a barren mess it looks today.

They cut down the spruce, the larch, the ash and birch trees
And covered the small moorhen pond with fill
We skated there on frosty winter mornings
Such happy moments I remember still.

In spring amidst the pond on reeds the moorhen nested
Her tiny babies out swimming in may
And every time a person passed or came near
The mother called and hid herself away.

In that small wood finches and thrushes nested
And treecreeper laid her eggs in nest in cleft in tree
Some scenes from childhood we always remember
Such beauty lives on in the memory.

They cut away the small wood of my childhood
A thing of Natural beauty was destroyed
And man for his excuse use name of progress
For destroying the beauty of the country side.

T'was the Cork County Council I remember
Who cut the small wood by our house away
They did it for the purpose of road widening
But what a barren mess it looks today.

---

Green New Zealand

by

Francis Duggan

I've seen great sights of beauty in my travels
The gold and grey landscapes, the brown and green
But south Pacific Islands of New Zealand
Are beautiful as anywhere I've seen.

I've seen the hills of Sherbrooke east of Melbourne
Where tall mountain ash reach upwards towards the sky
And cool rainforests of northern New South Wales and Queensland
Are memories I can recall and enjoy.

I've seen the high hills of Britain and Ireland
Of such green beauty famous bards have wrote
But I would write a song for green New Zealand
Had I been blessed with gift of rhyming poet.

I've seen the wild brown outback of Australia
It's rugged beauty man could never tame
A different sort of beauty to New Zealand
And no two sorts of beauty seem the same.

I've seen the Catskill mountains in their splendour
When flowers were blooming in the month of May
And birds sang in the leafy mountain woodlands
But that was years ago and far away.

The lush green hills and valleys of New Zealand
As beautiful as I have ever seen
And the homeland of the kakapo and kiwi
Can compare with to anywhere I've been.

---

From high paddocks of Birdsland

by

Francis Duggan

From high paddocks of Birdsland the hills green all around
And Nature in her splendour on view from higher ground
And white backed magpie piping he's piped all through the day
And kookaburra laughing in wood across the way

On the first week of summer a day of warm sunshine
But for early december the weather not so fine
The past two days were raining and the creek is flowing bank high
And towards the south I can see dark rain clouds in the sky.

The grey shrike thrush is carolling his flute like notes ring clear
And amongst all of the Australian birds the blackbird's voice I hear
They call him non Australian seems hard to understand
Is blackbird born in this country a bird without a land?.

From high paddocks of birdsland the nearby hills look green
And though I've known sights of beauty this fine as I have seen
The voice of nature's minstrels each distinct by their song
And all alone with Mother Nature far from the noisy throng.

The high paddocks of Birdsland lit by the evening sun
And spring has left till next year and summer's just begun
Amidst great natural beauty on bright and balmy day
And wildborn birds are singing in wood across the way.

---

I would need five thousand dollars

by

Francis Duggan

For years I knew nostalgia and my heart ruled my head
And now I am regretting the silly things I've said
Like I'd go home to Millstreet to greet the flowers of May
When wild born birds are singing in woodlands far away.

And though I'd love to see old Claraghatlea it will not be this year
For I don't have much money and flight tickets are dear
I'd need five thousand dollars that seems a big amount
I only have three hundred left in my bank account.

I got over nostalgia and now for Ireland I don't pine
And I love this big country of birdsong and sunshine
Of huge gums and acacias and paddocks wide and brown
One hundred miles in places to the nearest country town.

The mountain ash of Sherbrooke reach upwards towards the sky
And crimson rosellas chirping in small flocks as they fly
And under the cloak of darkness you hear the boobook cry
And bickering possums hissing on garden tree nearby.

A land of rugged beauty for want of a better name
Of droughts and storms and bushfires but a great land just the same
And when currawongs the crow sized birds pipe welcome to the rain
Places quite brown for months on end are looking green again.

And though I can't afford flight ticket in some ways I'm not poor
For I still have vivid memories of the fields of Aunagloor
In the coolness of the morning the meadow pipit sing
And robin on flowering hawthorn tree pipes his melodies of spring.

O'er wet and rushes places the curlew flies around
And pleasant sounds his fluting above his breeding ground
And o'er the lush green meadows swallows fly to and fro
And the dipper he is singing where the stream rapids flow.

The sheep are high on Clara hill tomorrow will be fine
Another day or maybe more of beautiful sunshine
The winter wet and frosty and the fields were often gray
But we may get a fine summer let's hope so anyway.

I've overcome nostalgia and I've left my past behind
And in this wide brown country happiness I did find
And though the landscape may seem blackened where the bushfires have been through
You will notice some greenery within a month or two.

I would love to visit Millstreet for I still have good friends there
But flight tickets too expensive and I do not have the fare
I would need five thousand dollars that seems a big amount
And I only have three hundred left in my bank account.

---

I have always loved you truly

by

Francis Duggan

I have always loved you truly Mother Nature
But about you I have much to learn and know
I see your changing beauty in the seasons
And I feel your anger when your wild gales blow.

I see your calm in the quiet pool of the river
In it's gravelly bed is mirrored the blue sky
Where in the quiet of the summer evening
The brown trout jump to catch the dragon fly.

I marvel at the beauty of your singing
When on bush and tree your feathered minstrels sing
Your woods and groves are green and bland and leafy
And you look marvellous in your green of spring.

I love the beauty of your snow capped mountains
On your frozen ponds and lakes the children skate
And in the bleakness of your winter valley
The barking dog fox searching for a mate.

I love the richness of your autumn colours
The mature trees in the Parkland of the town
Resplendent in their hues of natural beauty
The yellow and the orange and the brown.

Above your lush green meadows of the summer
The dark winged swallows flying to and fro
And from flower to flower the butterflies are flitting
And thrushes pipe on the leafy hedgerow.

I adore you now as always Mother Nature
Though about you I have much to learn and know
And I marvel at your wonders and your beauty
And my love for you it only grow and grow.

---

The Ash in Winter

by

Francis Duggan

The ash tree stand forlorn and bare
In the cold winter night air
Without the glossy green array
That was his on summer day.

In the breeze his branches sigh
As he talk to the starry sky
Telling tales of woe and joy
And of summer days gone by.

He recalls the days in spring
When the song thrush came to sing
Up to his tallest branch he'd fly
And pipe his merry tunes on high.

And it done the ash tree proud
When his green foliage gave shroud
To the singing thrushes young
Between his branches their nest clung.

And then there was his sister tree
Tall and beautiful as he
But two humans came and cut her down
And sold her wood to folk in town.

the dreary winter days pass slow
His only friend the odd stray crow
Who stop to rest while on it's way
To join it's kin at close of day.

Each night the ash tree turns his face
Towards the sky and outer space
And tell of his great sense of gloom
To the stars and crescent moon.

The moon console the ash and say
Winter days won't always stay
Spring will come soft winds will blow
And on your branches new leaves will grow

And the thrush will come to sing
From your highest branch in spring
And that same thrush will build her nest
In your green and glossy vest.

---

Between Loch and Wonthaggi

by

Francis Duggan

I'd love to be between Loch and Wonthaggi
Where mountain creek through small wood winds it's way
And join the Powlett river down the hill
That flows into the sea at Powlett bay.

All through the spring the white backed magpie sing
He fly to blackwood tree at dawn of day
And in the silent dawn his music ring
And his voice can be heard a quarter mile away.

The teenager next door swears at his mum
His words are coarse his voice grate in the ear
Oh for the peace of the Wonthaggi hills
The magpie's voice I'd much prefer to hear

There is no peace where many people dwell
All day the noise of traffic up and down
But I've found peace on the south Gippsland hills
The quiet hills the other side of town.

I'd love to be between Loch and Wonthaggi
Where mountain creek through small wood winds it's way
And join the Powlett river down the hill
That flows into the sea at Powlett bay.

---

Man the latent predator

by

Francis Duggan

Humans were always predators and though that gene we now suppress
It still remains in all of us in our drive for success
And though modern man no longer is compelled to kill to eat
The most of us still predators as the most of us eat meat.

For man's inhumanity to man for words I'm at a loss
We even nailed the son of god on calvary to a cross
And man has been killing his own kind before men to lions were fed
Or before Herod's men presented Herod's daughter with John the baptist's head.

The predator gene though suppressed in all of us alive
Centuries ago in pre historic times humans used it to survive
The leopard never changes his spots and he's a beast of prey
And man the latent predator will always be that way.

---

Song of a wandering fellow

by

Francis Duggan

I know from where my life's journey began and god knows where t'is ending
And I am just a wandering man and what's the use pretending
That I belong to any place to any State or Nation
Life can be like a mystery trip to an unknown destination.

For years I lived by Boggeragh hills in Millstreet in Duhallow
Till wanderlust it beckoned me and I could only follow
To a distant land beyond the seas to far and distant places
Away from Millstreet my hometown and it's familiar faces.

To the hills of the pied currawong the wombat and the possum
Where in the depths of winter the golden wattles blossom
The wattles quite resplendent covered in their flowers of yellow
A thing of beauty to behold for an ageing wandering fellow.

This wanderlust is like a drug a form of addiction
But I envy those who stay at home content in their restriction
They marry and raise their children in their own place of upbringing
Whilst the wanderer bound to wanderlust yearns for a new beginning.

I left my homeplace Claraghatlea to see the great wide yonder
And the wanderlust still in my heart and I still yearn to wander
And like restless water from the hill that scurries down the gravel
The wanderlust in me is strong the urge in me to travel.

---

The fields of Lisnaboy

by

Francis Duggan

The migrant redwing thrushes from the bare hedgerows fly
And the dark rain clouds of february go slowly drifting by
And the lark today is silent he don't carol in the sky
High up there in the cloud world o'er the fields of Lisnaboy.

But I recall the summer the bright days in july
When in the sunlit meadow we tossed the hay to dry
And the robin he was singing on the leafy hedge nearby
And the little lark was carolling o'er the fields of Lisnaboy.

The migrant redwing thrushes they fly north for the spring
And in their northern homeland they build their nests and sing
And in their native woodlands for food their nestlings cry
Far from their wintering hedgerows in the fields of Lisnaboy

I learnt much from Nature and in May the leafy trees
Smelt fragrant in their blossoms and the wild born honey bees
Were busy gathering nectar from the flowers by the hedgerow
In the fields of old Duhallow far away and long ago.

The years go by so quickly and the seasons come and go
And the wildflowers bloom from late march on when the grass growing breezes blow
And the swallows are back home again and they twitter as they fly
O'er the fields and groves and hedgerows of green old Lisnaboy.

---

Soldier's Tree

by

Francis Duggan

They call this tree the Soldier's Tree
It honours one whose life blood was shed
A victim of the first world war
'Lest we forget our soldier dead'.

I read the plaque nailed to the tree
It stated his date of birth and name
A tree to honour his bravery
But to dead soldier what use fame?.

I see he was just seventeen
So young so very young to die
Those who sent him to fight in war
Must share blame for death of the boy.

Fighting more than half a world away
And at the end what was his gain?
Gunned down by one he'd never known
Hope death was quick without much pain.

How can one that you've never known
Ever become your enemy?
Those who send men to die in wars
Of guilt must not be made feel free.

I read the plaque on Soldier's Tree
On war memorial avenue
A lad who died at seventeen
Gunned down by one he never knew.

---

Tanyard Champion

by

Francis Duggan

I still recall the year of Tanyard Champion
That great greyhound 'the rocket from Millstreet'
Owned by Pat Cashman at the top of Tullig
The fawn speedster was seldom led or beat.

Voted Irish track greyhound of the year in fifty seven
The son of Champion Prince and Flexion's Glow
Won big races at race tracks around Ireland
And that was more than forty years ago.

The mighty dog came from a famous litter
His litter sister the great Tanyard Tan
They raced against and beat the best in Ireland
And they made their owner quite a famous man.

He set track records on his way to glory
And at tracks when Tanyard Champion did compete
The crowds who love a champion flocked to see him
And cheered on the fawn speedster from Millstreet.

As his name suggested he was a true champion
And he raced against the best dogs every time
The greyhound of the year in fifty seven
And Ireland's fastest track dog in his prime.

---

Abraham Lincoln

by

Francis Duggan

Abraham Lincoln always was a man of honour
The most talked of President of the U.S.A.
And he was one who was for peace and justice
And for everyone he believed in fair play.

Assassinated by John Wilkes Booth one with a mental illness
Only the good die young or so they say
But Lincoln he will always be remembered
And his legend alive and well today.

He paid with his life for the highest office
In fame and success it can be that way
But it's the same for the king and the pauper
And in the way we die we do not have a say.

He was the subject of the poets and painters
And much about the great man has been said
And his fame outlived the bullet that took his life
And at his passing buckets of tears shed.

Like many other greats before and after
His value never realized till he was gone
He was an inspiration to the masses
And his legacy forever will live on.

---

The poor give to the wrong type power

by

Francis Duggan

The poor so sad to say do not see far
They vote for one who drives expensive car
And one they don't see after voting day
From where they live he lives long miles away.

The poor don't ever seem to understand
That they vote for one who for them little care
To one greedy individual they give power
And when they need him he is never there.

Who is this person the poor voted for
He lives in a big house leads the high life
And you won't see him in a second hand shop
When he is buying a present for his wife.

The poor to the wrong type always give power
And they make the worst choices on voting day
They ought to vote for one of their own kind
And for mistakes made there is a price to pay.

The poor give to the wrong type of person power
To greedy individual they give all the say
On voting day the wrong choices they make
And what little power they have they give away.

---

In a Brighton Park

by

Francis Duggan

The noisy miners pipe on bush and tree
In a Brighton park near Melbourne by the sea
On a pleasant day and summer in her prime
And a scene that would inspire a poet to rhyme.

The park garden beds are cloaked with pretty flowers
One might sit here and meditate for hours
And feel the warmth of the summer breeze
Where lorikeets are chirping on the trees.

Young lovers walking arm in arm embrace
She has the beauty of youth in her face
And he not more than twenty one or two
They have their dreams I hope their dreams come true.

The familiar fluting of the magpie lark
This is his home he lives around this park
And in this park he will live until he die
Beyond his borders he will never fly.

The woman for her ridgeback the stick throw
And he races off as fast as he can go
And he brings it back and drops it at her feet
And wags his tail and begs for a repeat.

In Brighton out of Melbourne by the sea
The wild birds pipe on every bush and tree
On a pleasant day and summer in her prime
And such beauty would inspire a poet to rhyme.

---

The ballad of Willie Pat

by

Francis Duggan

I will tell to you a story as the story was told to me
About a man who lived in Darwin in Australia's Northern Territory
He was born and raised in Ireland a true blooded Irishman
And the noble blood of Munster through his big and brave heart ran.

He was hark back to Ned Kelly with long black beard and long black hair
Six foot four and weighing sixteen stone he was hard but always fair
He was man of strength and muscle on him not one ounce of fat
And he was much loved in Darwin the likeable Willie Pat.

He worked in town and bushland from laying pipes to jackaroo
And the more that came to know him the more popular he grew
And though he was never troublemaker he'd not back out of a fight
As he proved to all in Darwin on a humid july night.

In a Darwin mid town tavern stomping ground of 'Bulldog blue'
The bully boy of Darwin and a cruel hearted one too
Six foot eight and weighing eighteen stone he had earned his ill renown
As the greatest ever rowdy ever raised in Darwin town.

Yes the bulldog was a blaghguard and the liquor drove him wild
And he'd done a stretch in prison for punching a twelve year child
He could pick on anybody if he did not like their look
And he'd drop them without warning with his vicious right hand hook.

The most hated man in Darwin was the bully bulldog boy
And to say he had not one friend would not be a barefaced lie
He was far to much a rowdy and too proud he was so strong
And had hurted far too many who had never done him wrong.

The bulldog was on the batter and he was in fighting mood
And as usual he was boisterous and mouthing loud and rude
And from his side of the bar room people quietly moved away
But Willie Pat the Irishman was the one who chose to stay.

The bulldog approached the Irishman and called him names like lout
And Irish swine and gutless dog and for fight offered him out
And the Irishman he left his stool and walked across the floor
And beckoned to the bully boy to step outside the door.

And the bully boy he followed him out and so did all of those in the bar
To watch the local rowdy take on the one from land afar
And for once the patriotic Aussies buried their Aussie pride
And the Irishman he had the hopes of Darwin on his side.

The Bulldog blue from Darwin with the instincts of the brute
Was first to draw he lashed out with his vicious right side
boot
But the Irishman proved far too quick he gave the boot the slip
And to Bulldog's unprotected jaw a left hand hook did rip.

The Bulldog toppled backwards and like a log hit the ground
To a huge roar of approval from those gathered around
And he was down and he was out and it only took one blow
From the macho man from Ireland to lay the giant low.

The bearded man had triumphed he had truly won the day
To a huge roar of approval a massive hip hooray
In a moment of excitement he had won himself renown
And was shouldered like a hero through the streets of Darwin town.

Six months later down near Sydney Willie Pat worked on Pipeline
On the second week in january a day of hot sunshine
He was jackhammering hard rock at bottom of shallow trench
When in his uncovered right side arm he felt a prickly pinch

He'd been bitten by funnel web spider and little did he know
That this tiny furtive creature to mankind is fatal foe
Within minutes he lay dying from bite destined to kill
And was discovered two hours later way beyond help 'pulses still'

He was strong and powerful fellow with the best he could compete
And he'd felled a giant in Darwin on a Darwin mid town street
But he was found near Sydney at trench bottom ghostly white
And all it took to kill him was a little spider's bite.

---

On seeing Yellow tailed black Cockies

by

Francis Duggan

Four parrot like birds crying in the darkening sky
Too dark to recognize with naked eye
But by their calls which sound much like 'wee yu'
Those birds are yellow tailed black Cockatoo.

They make their nest high up in hollow of old tree
Two babes at most though only one survive
The ways of Nature oft times can be cruel
And the weak must perish for the strong to thrive.

With yellow stripes on tail and mostly brownish dark
They eat the seeds of hakea and pine
And with their strong beaks from eucalypt they strip the bark
In search of white grubs on which they love to dine.

It's been said that yellow tailed cockies are rare
But only last week I can well recall
I've counted up to five at Ferny Creek
Perched on mountain ash near thirty metres tall.

On cold and wintery evening in july
I hear their calls which sound much like 'wee yu'
Four dark brown birds in darkening evening sky
The voice of yellow tailed black cockatoo.

---

A thing of joy to keep in memory

by

Francis Duggan

In Waverley's Jells park I felt in luck
A rare, rare sighting of rare freckled duck
A pair swam and dived not far from the lake shore
A dozen metres maybe even more.

Near 8 p.m. on dull november day
And night fall less than half an hour away
With aid of binoculars I had a rare view
Of rare rare birds their numbers only few.

The freckled duck on the protected list
But some shooters the temptation can't resist
In duck season some freckled duck still die
Uncaring shooters shoot them as they fly.

I hope this pair at Jells park lake will stay
And not fly off to bush lake miles away
To Jells park lake no shooter venture near
The penalty if caught far too severe.

A blackbird whistled in the twilight gray
Near 8 p.m. of dull november day
And from lake shore two freckled duck I see
A thing of joy to keep in memory.

---

Home is where the heart is

by

Francis Duggan

Her mum and dad brought her to Australia
When she was two years old in seventy two
And you'd never know she once came from Ireland
As she speak and act as all Queenslanders do.

Her hair is brown she has a deep suntan
A lovely lady with a cheerful way
She swims each morning before she go to work
And sun bathe for at least an hour each day.

It's warm by the sea at Noosa Heads
Up north of Brisbane on the sunshine coast
It's sunshine nearly twelve months of the year
And twenty days of rainfall at the most.

You'd never know she once came from Ringsend
Of Ireland in her I can see no trace
And I'm sure if she went to Dublin now
From where she came from she'd feel out of place.

She asked me are the Irish winters cold
As cold and wet as other people say?
I said the winter can be cold and wet
But weather warms in early days of May.

I asked her would she like to go back home?
Why home she said is Noosa heads to me
And if I went to Dublin I know well
That I would feel like a fish out of sea.

Home is where the heart is it's been said
And with those words how can one disagree
And she's an Aussie of the sunshine coast
And she loves Noosa Heads, the sun and sea.

---

On seeing a documentary on black rhino

by

Francis Duggan

The poachers only shoot them for their horn
And they even kill the young and newly born
And their numbers in the wild State only few
And their last hope of survival now the zoo.

It's sad to think that African tribal child
May not now see black rhino in the wild
May live his whole lifetime and never see
Black rhino on savanna living free.

Some men don't kill to eat they kill for greed
And only think of their financial need
For cash reward rich dealers they supply
And Rhino for their horn condemned to die.

The Black Rhino in Africa now so few
And some were flown to Australia to Dubbo Zoo
In hope they might breed in captivity
At least of poachers guns they now are free.

I watched a program on them on T.V.
And I felt sad so sad at what I see
To think that men would shoot them for their horn
And even kill their young and newly born.

---

The great Australian dream

by

Francis Duggan

To own your own home in a suburban housing estate
Or to watch the captain of your favourite team
Raise the trophy aloft after the A.F.L Grand final siren
It's all part of the great Australian dream.

To cheer the Aussie cricketers in victory
And against the English watch them reign supreme
And to celebrate with your mates at the local
It's all part of the great Australian dream.

To watch your team win the Rugby League Grand final
A dream you thought that never would come true
And in the club rooms you celebrate all evening
And the happiest man in all of the world is you.

To watch your son in his first game of football
Whilst others tell you how well he can play
And you feel proud and the thought to you is pleasing
That your son might be a super star one day.

To see your daughter receive her diploma
And you tell your mates about her great success
A moment you'll remember in the future
This moment that brought you such happiness.

To own your own home in a suburban housing estate
And to watch your young son the best player in his team
And to cheer the Aussie cricketers to victory
It's just all part of the great Australian dream.

---

The big let down

by

Francis Duggan

Who will want to recall easter monday night
When Ramtown lads came to Oakview for fight
But all of those who came to witness the big brawl
Will have no vivid memory to recall.

For the prelude to all of this go two weeks back
When a young fellow from Ramtown ginger Jack
Received two cracked ribs and two swollen eyes
When beaten up by thuggish Oakview boys.

And though out numbered thirty five to one
And cornered in with nowhere out to run
He fought his best but he got knocked to ground
And like a football he got kicked around.

When news reached Ramtown Ginger's biker friends
Vowed that they'd have the last laugh in the end
And they challenged Oakview boys who set the date
For easter monday night april the eight.

And all those who love to watch a brawl were there
They came from miles around from god knows where
And local bookie Paddy Joe Mginn
Had Oakview even money for a win.

And with numerical advantage big on Oakview's side
And they at home defending home town pride
The astute mid aged bookie from Oakview
Lay Ramtown lads at odds of five to two.

Ten Ramtown lads on ten noisy motor bikes
Roared into Oakview town all dressed alike
Wearing leather coats and dirty denim jeans
A real hard bunch and all of them looked mean.

These long haired chaps whose deeds bring ill renown
Had come to test the hards of Oakview town
Armed with knuckle dusters and sharp edged pocket knives
Such weapons to endanger human lives.

They dismounted and put their bikes away
And removed their coats in readiness for the fray
They had driven more than forty miles to face
These Oakview fellows here in their home place.

In Oakview town square by the mart yard gate
The local heavies from Oakview did wait
Armed with knives and bottles, blackthorn sticks and stones
Would this be night of blood and broken bones?.

With almost three hundred onlookers in the town square
One could almost feel the tension in the air
And with no policemen there to keep things quiet
For Oakview this could be a shameful night.

The Ramtown gang leader a giant amongst men
Weighing eighteen stone and standing six foot ten
With long black beard and unkempt long black hair
In Ramtown he is known as 'Jim the bear'.

And just one glimpse of him for Oakview lads seemed enough
And then suddenly they did not feel so tough
Near this huge giant their biggest man looked small
And now they felt in no good mood for brawl.

In Oakview town square the voice of taunt it rang
Of the giant leader of the Ramtown gang
He mocked the Oakview lads and called them out
But they felt fearful and none dare open his mouth.

There were forty in the Oakview gang or more
And ten from Ramtown odds of one to four
But the Oakview lads respected one man for his size
And to hold their peace to them seemed much more wise.

The Ramtown lads left Oakview in the gloam
A whooping loudly as they rode for home
And had they not good reason for to crow
They had conquered yet a punch they did not throw.

And what promised to be night of blood and guts
Turned out to be night of if's and but's
There may well be blood flowing in Oakview town square
If Ramtown lads did not have Jim the bear.

---

Were I a poet

by

Francis Duggan

The hungry fox in the high field was barking
And where heron fished the river trickled slow
And the moon shone on the old fields of Duhallow
And the wind blew chill t'was cold enough to snow.

On cypress by the house the dunnock huddled
As he slept on low branch with head tucked beneath his wing
With food quite scarce he went to bed half hungry
Perhaps his dreams were of a warm spring.

How come poets often write of flowers and roses
Of songs of birds and buzz of summer bees?
Were I a poet I'd write of windswept valleys
And magpies chattering on the leafless trees.

Were I a poet I'd write of bleak december
In Caherbarnagh and the Paps of Shrone
Before the spring there has to be a winter
And cold, wet and windy winters I have known.

How come when some poets write of spring they ignore Mother Nature
And their invisible gods they acclaim?
Were I a poet I'd write of my green goddess
Almighty Mother Nature is her name.

Were I a poet I'd write of Sliabh Luachra and Duhallow
And the mountains and the valleys far away
And the elders of my childhood who inspired me
And I'd write how I remember them today.

How come some poets only write of upper class types?
Sometimes I feel they leave their kindred down
Were I a poet I'd write about the unsung
Like some people I once knew in Millstreet town.

Were I a poet I'd write of the Cork and Kerry border
The fields of Ballydaly and Rathmore
And I'd write about historical Sliabh Luachra
Where great poets and musicians lived before.

Were I a poet to some I would write different
Perhaps the world through different eyes we see
And were I a poet now that is wishful thinking
For a poet I know that I will never be.

---

Like father like son

by

Francis Duggan

He proudly walks out hand in hand with his new girl friend
And from gym workouts he looks well muscled broad shouldered
and trim
He wears sleeveless shirts to display his tattoos well bronzed from sun and wind
And there is a certain arrogance about the man known as big Jim.

It's been said he spends at least a half an hour in his bathroom every day
Admiring himself in the mirror in his brown hair yet no gray
And those who claim to know him well of him can only say
That vanity not new to him he's always been this way.

His great sense of self importance comes from his father's
side
Burly Jim senior like his burly son too has excessive pride
'Like father like son' as the saying goes is more often than not true
And vanity is a family thing so tell us something new.

We cannot help the way we are and to our own faults we are blind
And each of us have our own flaws we are not the flawless kind
And big Jim in his fortieth year his own faults he can't see
To him to feel superior is just not vanity.

He walks hand in hand with his new love she looks younger by far than he
A blond in her early twenties she looks not more than twenty three
His bare arms covered in tattoos his physique on display
And vanity not new to him he's always been this way.

---

Go out and spend your money friend.

by

Francis Duggan

Go out and spend your money friend t'is soon you'll have to die
So what use in piling riches up for others to enjoy
And don't have some relation say on the day they lay you low
He forgot me he left me nought the bloody so and so.

Go out and spend your money friend and withy it enjoy life
Because dead men they are quickly forgot even by their wife
And though she may be old and gray with your riches she can
Quite easily get married to a handsome virile man.

Don't leave too much to your daughter friend nor neither to your son
Because they too will forget you quick when your life course is run
But spend it on yourself my friend while you're still in your prime
Beacause you will be forever dead and short is a lifetime.

Go out and spend your money friend and don't have people say
He was a miser all his life on the day you pass away
Because money it was made by man and meant to go around
And if you don't spend it someone else will when you are underground.

Go out and spend your money friend before it is too late
Because days and years slide fast away and time for no one wait
Because you will be forever dead and brief the human stay
And death quickly approaches with the dawning of each day.

---

Libby

by

Francis Duggan

With Mother Nature Libby lives in harmony
She loves the woodland every bush and tree
She know the birds she know them by their song
The yellow robin, butcherbird and currawong.

She says that birds like us not wholly free
That bird song is more about territory
The kookaburra never laughs for joy
But as a warning to his kindred bird nearby.

She never had children never was a wife
And in her house by the wood she has spent most of her life
Three score and ten years on her next birthday
Her once brown hair clipped short is silver gray.

Her lover Jim died seven years ago
From prostrate cancer his end painful and slow
They had lived together for close to thirty years
And her great sense of loss was washed away in tears.

Their great love for nature was their common bond
And on spring evenings they often walked to gray gum pond
Just to watch the little dabchick dive for prey
Such happy memories never fade away.

By woodland grass margins at the dawn of day
She watch the swamp wallabies box and play
Before they hop to cover of the trees
To hide in undergrowth up to the knees.

She recognize each plant that in the woodland grow
And about Nature there's not much that she don't know
She love the wild broom cloaked in their yellow flowers
By woodland paths in summer's early hours.

The name of every wild thing, bush and tree
Is stored away in Libby's memory
And she wake each morning at the dawn of day
To watch the swamp wallabies box and play.

---

Peter Carroll

by

Francis Duggan

He was only a small sized man at a guess five foot four
Nine stone perhaps of slender build if that then not much more
And I still have the memories from sunny summer's day
Of watching Peter Carroll as he built a rick of hay.

He more than earnt what he was paid well worthy of his hire
And he piked for hours in the hot sun and never seemed to tire
He worked with fellows half his age and more than held his own
One of Duhallow's great workmen and better I've not known.

He rated with Inchaleigh's best towards west of Millstreet town
Johnny Hickey and Jack Kelleher and Daniel and Jackie Brown
And all were renowned working men in mountain country side
They gave their best and done good job and in their work took pride.

The greatest workman pound for pound from road by Clara hill
And had Peter been a great athlete he'd be remembered still
And though names of men who laboured hard not on memorial wall
The little man from Inchaleigh is one I can recall.

One of Duhallow's great workmen and better I've not known
He worked with fellows half his age and more than held his own
And I still have the memories from sunny summer's day
Of watching Peter Carroll as he built a rick of hay.

---

Your Judges

by

Francis Duggan

You feel the world's against you and life is so unfair
And they judge you by the way you look and the colour of your hair
And they judge you by your bank account and by the clothes you wear
And your judges are so plentiful around you everywhere.

You rise at dawn to go to work from monday to friday
And you are one who do work hard to earn your every pay
But your faceless judges out there they talk behind your back
And whisper he's not doing as well as his older brother Jack.

You are judged by the work you do and by your postal address
And than those who live on 'Highbrow street' they seem to love you less
From an upper class suburb you know of one who is known to the police
But they don't look on her as bad for she's the doctor's niece.

You've thought of moving elsewhere to a city Interstate
But your self righteous judges will be there your achievements to rate
For they are abundant everywhere in country and in town
And they don't need a reason or an excuse to put you down.

And though they judge you on the car you drive and the company you keep
About your many judges do not lose one minute's sleep
For they don't spend all of their waking hours passing judgement on you
They have many to think about for they judge others too.

---

Laughter

by

Francis Duggan

Banish all sad thoughts from your mind to make room for joy and laughter
For this may be the only life you'll have there may not be a
hereafter
The years go by so quickly and time we cannot borrow
And make the most of this day there may not be a tomorrow.

The ageing bloke across the way is bent from toil and labour
He spends most of his spare time quarrelling with his next door neighbour
He claims his neighbour built the fence six inches on his side of the border
And the cops have even been around to restore law and order.

He gets so angry and worked up about a trivial matter
And he's not a happy man at all he seems 'mad as a hatter'
He's hoary gray and three score years and he's not short of a dollar
Yet about a few inches of ground he gets 'hot under the collar'.

But like him there are many more who like to stir up trouble
Who argue over trivial things the anger in them bubble
They grumble like baby in the cot who needs a change of nappy
If they had laughter in their hearts they might learn to be happy.

This may be our only chance of life there may not be a hereafter
So why be angry, sour or sad when these feelings suppress laughter
The angry man with his neighbour quarrel and to his grudge keeps clinging
Whilst the carefree one knows how to smile and his laugh with joy is ringing.

---

The night Philotimo won the Laurels

by

Francis Duggan

The night Philotimo won the Laurels the memory with me still
The cheers that rang in western road might be heard in Cockhill
And Con Kelleher was beaming this night he'd lived to see
When the son of Pride of Corrin raced to great victory.

We cheered when Tanyard Heather raced quickly to renown
When Pat Cashman brought the Laurels to Tullig by Millstreet town
And now it was Con Kelleher's turn he stood in the spotlight
And not one to begrudge the man his greatest ever night.

The night Philotimo won the Laurels we witnessed something great
And Millstreet had another big race win to celebrate
Another champion dog from Millstreet which came as no surprise
Had won the Laurels at Cork track Cork's biggest racing prize.

To the night Philotimo won the Laurels one must go back in time
And I was only twenty then and coming to my prime
And now I'm over fifty and what hair I've left is gray
But happy memories from the past seem never far away.

The night Philotimo won the Laurels we watched a legend grow
And dogs like him are very rare as greyhound owners know
In under thirty seconds he raced to victory
And the feats of flier from Cockhill live on in memory.

---

I've never been to the Antartic

by

Francis Duggan

I've never been to the Antartic the land of eternal snow
Where temperatures can often reach sixty degrees below
The freezing point of zero, down there it must be cold
Even colder than the Artic where men perished for gold.

I've never been to the Antartic though I readily can recall
Watching documentaries on T.V. on the Earth's coldest part of all
Where in winter the Antartic waters for miles around are froze
And through the frost bound continent the icy cold wind blows.

The home of the Emperor Penguins the big birds of the sea
They dive to depths of over eight hundred feet that seems quite deep to me
In the coldest months of winter the male one big egg incubate
And for the female to return from sea to raise the chick a
hungry two months wait.

In the southern most southern continent that reaches far and wide
Only the hardiest of human beings for short periods could reside
An unwelcoming part of Planet Earth and few humans venture there
And only hardy southern mammals and sea birds such cold temperatures could bear.

I've never been to Antartica for me that seems too cold
Even far colder than the Artic where men perished for gold
Since Roald Amundsen reached the south pole almost ninety years ago
Few humans have ever ventured on the land of ice and snow.

---

The Jilted one

by

Francis Duggan

Her lover's left her and she's feeling shattered
And she acts as if her whole world's come apart
But tears of sorrow won't return him to her
And one like him not worth a heavy heart.

He spends his passion now on a blond beauty
Though with her he is not likely to stay
He's like a ram who must attend to others
Some men are faithless and remain that way.

He's gone from her and by him she's forgotten
The foolish one who hoped to be his wife
But she might learn from her bad experience
For there's a lesson every day in life.

She tells her friends how she's feeling suicidal
How she loved a man who to her proved untrue
And though your friends may listen to your tearful stories
Apart from that they can't do much for you.

Soon she will get over her faithless lover
This prety looking woman in her prime
And her suicidal mood in time will quickly leave her
For the greatest healer of them all is time.

---

Sing us songs of Sherbrooke

by

Francis Duggan

We've sat listening all the evening to those oft sung melodies
And if you feel like singing mister sing us songs of Sherbrooke please
Sing us songs of Sherbrooke mister and let us hear the mountain breeze
Soughing softly in Kallista in those majestic gum trees.

Sing a song to us of Belgrave where the roads wind up and down
It's the home of 'Puffing Billy' and a historic old town
Many come to ride on Billy some from many miles away
And they fall in love with Sherbrooke and return again one day.

Sing a song of Puffing Billy puffing puffing up by Selby hill
In the silence of mid morning and you hear him whistle shrill
As he labours up towards Emerald smoke reek upwards towards
the sky
Hear his young passengers laughing as the train goes chugging by.

Sing a song to us of Emerald, Clematis and Menzies Creek
Of the beauty of these places one might sing on for a week
Sing of the Patch and Olinda, Ferny Creek and Sassafras
Songs of Sherbrooke we'll remember from the memory they won't pass.

Sing us songs of Upper Gully and Tecoma and Upwey
Those old town by the high woodlands where the greeness all
year stay
Sing of south Belgrave and Kallista and Monbulk and Belgrave
Heights
Sing us songs of dear old Sherbrooke of beauty and scenic sights.

The State Government has changed the name of Sherbrooke Yarra Ranges now it's name
And the changes keep on happening what was once is not the same
But though the government make a name change many people don't comply
And the name of Shire of Sherbrooke might yet take some time to die.

So sing us songs of Sherbrooke mister they are songs we love to hear
And sing to us of the high woodlands where the greeness stay all year
Where the currawongs and cockies call out on the higher trees
And the magpie's voice is carrying in the freshening mountain breeze.

---

Dimitri

by

Francis Duggan

There was a time when with Athens finest dancers he could hold the floor
And he could dance non stop for three hours or even four
But Dimitri won't be going back home any more
And his bones will rest here in a foreign shore.

He walks with a cane and his once dark hair now gray
And one might say that he has known a better day
And for the past five years he has led a lonely life
Since the death of Nana his beloved Grecian wife.

They came to live in Melbourne in nineteen forty three
When he was twenty four one year older than she
And their only offspring he died as a young man
In the late sixties on war duty in Vietnam.

Of the ups and downs of life the old man know
On the thirteenth of august thirty six years ago
Dimitri junior in a coffin to them brought home
A part of you too die when you lose one of your own.

In a strong Greek accent in the English tongue he speak
But when with his old mates the language used is Greek
And the songs he sing he sings in his old tongue
And though his bones grow old his dreams will remain young.

There was a time he could dance all night long
Back in the days when he was young and strong
But that was years ago and far away
And thousands of miles north of where he lives today.

---

Lake Bolac

by

Francis Duggan

On the shores of Lake Bolac in the quiet wooded park
The songbirds singing all day long from early dawn till dark
And magpie pipes his finest upon the gray gum tree
By the waters of lake bolac far distant from the sea.

Though t'is mid fall in Victoria and still five months from the spring
By the waters of lake Bolac the willy wagtail sing
He appease his healthy appetite by the element of surprise
When he flies out from a low branch to snatch passing bees and flies.

In the parkland at lake bolac one can hear the whistling kite
Softly whistle to each other as they hover whilst in flight
As they scan the trees and ground below them in their search for smaller prey
In Nature's garden it's survival of the fittest and it's always been that way.

Little flocks of bright green lories like a close knit family
Keep on calling to each other as they fly from tree to tree
Near where the waters of lake bolac ever laps upon the shore
Inland distant from saltwater perhaps ninety miles or more.

---

In the Snowy Mountain country

by

Francis Duggan

In the snowy mountain country where the snowy river flow
The temperatures at zero and the winds of winter blow
And the hungry fox is barking out there on the moonlit hill
His voice re-echoes in the silence something loud and wild and shrill.

In the snowy mountain country where Peter lived as a boy
He still talks about the storms there and the big winds of july
And the snowy river in full flood it roared downhill bank high
And the roos fled the flooded paddocks for places high and dry.

But the snowy mountain country is a pleasant land in spring
In the cool days of september the wild birds nest and sing
And the magpies build their nests of sticks and carol all day long
And the territorial butcherbird sings his bubbling courtship song.

From the snowy mountain country Peter now lives far away
In Rockhampton in the Queensland tropics where there's seldom a wet day
And though the man may leave the mountain the mountain in him stay
I come from the southern highlands with great pride you hear him say.

In the snowy mountain country storm clouds are in the sky
And the roos have fled the flooded paddocks for places high and dry
But when july fades to august spring to the hills is near
And september in the snowies is a lovely time of year.

---

In a world where some have too much

by

Francis Duggan

Poets have sung of royal monarchs and of pomp and ceremony
And many of these poets now famous live on in literary history
But the poets who wrote for the poor people their names few wish to recall
Life has been this way for centuries and things may never change at all.

We still have the rich and famous and the elite society
And those who see them as superior promote inequality
And the rich are getting richer and the poor poorer sad to say
In a world where many people die of hunger every day.

One can't blame the starving millions if they see life as unfair
And a thousand must get poorer just to make one millionaire
And the middle class disappearing they too losing out to greed
In a world where some have too much there is hunger, want and need.

In a world where some have too much there is sadness and despair
Once great cities destroyed by bombings, buildings damaged beyond repair
And the poor are left to suffer and their homes have been destroyed
And the maimed without a future and the lucky all have died.

In a world where some have too much hunger and disease is rife
People eat what others throw out just to hang in there in life
People in their early thirties already looking old and gray
In a world where some have too much there is much social decay.

In a world where some have too much there is inequality
And the slums are getting bigger and there's widespread poverty
And the poets who sung of royalty and pomp and ceremony
Many of them now quite famous live in literary history.

---

Black July

by

Francis Duggan

The fastest dog in Millstreet when I was a young boy
Was owned and bred by Maurice Connors his name was Black July
Trained by Paddy O Keeffe at Dooneen a leading trainer then
In the Kennedy cup at Limerick he had a famous win.

A son of Cheeky Tippy and Maddest Lily the striking black and white
Was Ireland's fastest greyhound when he was in full flight
The Irish Derby favourite he was the one to beat
And one of the fastest greyhounds to come out of Millstreet.

Sold to Harry O Neill the bookmaker the word it got around
For a record price for a greyhound then t'was said two thousand pounds
And Black July for Maurice Connors had surely paid his way
For two thousand pounds in those times worth thirty grand today.

Since Denny Dennehy and John Joe Cronin's hounds brought to their Paish fame
Duhallow home of champion dogs so many one could name
And Black July a top class dog when he was in his prime
The mighty speedster from Liscreagh inspired the bards to rhyme.

It must be nearly forty years how quick the time did fly
Since Millstreet had a champion dog his name was Black July
And Millstreet had many great dogs since of their big wins we hear
And the latest Donie Mahony's champ the great Mountleader Peer.

Trained at Dooneen by Paddy O Keeffe a leading trainer then
In the Kennedy cup at Limerick he had a famous win
The fastest greyhound of his year when I was just a boy
Was owned and bred at Liscreagh the mighty Black July.

---

Now don't you think it quite unfair

by

Francis Duggan

Now don't you think it quite unfair
To judge him for his straggly hair
And if his dreadlocks are tinged with blue
What would that have to do with you?.

He's just a stranger walking by
And yet you judge him wonder why
If he wants to look different that's his right
And who knows his soul may well be full of light?.

You are entitled to express your views
But you've never lived in the man's shoes
And mister would you not agree
That into his soul we cannot see?.

By the cover you can't judge the book
Or People by the way they look
And for all we know the man may be
A credit to humanity.

We've never seen this man before
And may not see him never more
And do we have the right to care
If he has dreadlocks in his hair?.

He is a stranger and t'would appear
That his home may be far from here
And he's just going through life like you and I
The young bloke with the dreadlocks that walked by.

---

Oh pity them

by

Francis Duggan

Oh pity them the lost youth of Australia
They are the victims of sad circumstance
They are the children of dysfunctional parents
And in life they've never really had a chance.

It is their hard luck to live in the slum suburb
And their address is seen as a put down
Employers never keen to give employment
To young people from the wrong side of the town.

The gap between the haves and the have nots keep widening
In fact t'would seem it's never beeen so wide
And in a land where some have more than plenty
Self interest creates the social divide.

From an early age the odds are stacked against them
And on drugs and booze they waste their fleeting prime
Their mentors and role models repeat offenders
And the path to jail the only path from crime.

Born in the wrong place their greatest disadvantage
Their broken dreams shattered beyond repair
Oh pity them the poor souls of Australia
Whoever said that all in life is fair?.

---

And from you my dear country

by

Francis Duggan

In Shannaknuck the old hill songbirds pipe all the day
And wildflowers bloom in margins by bog road through Liscreagh
And curlew in the bogland his flute like notes I hear
At once so very far away and then so very near.

The skylark leaves the rushes and upwards as he fly
He sings all day from dawning till darkness cloaks the sky
And blackbird, wren and dunock with finch in song compete
And Spring has come to visit Duhallow and Millstreet.

The moorhen in the river out with her tiny chicks
And jackdaw busy all day to chimney top drawing sticks
And shlaun men in the boglands shlaun out the soggy peat
For summer sun to dry out their source of winter heat.

And Knocknapogue looks greener than she's looked for sometime
And flowers are in the meadows and spring is in her prime
And old Clara hill looks younger than he's looked days ago
Up to the tenth of april he wore a cap of snow.

And swallows o'er the valley all day wing to and fro
And winter just a memory and grass growing breezes blow
And hawthorn tree looks lovely resplendent in her white
She's one of nature's fairest a very pretty sight.

The cattle out to pasture, the sheep high on the hill
And sunshine at eleven to lift the morning chill
A shower of rain at mid day and sun shine out again
The memory of such beauty forever will remain.

I walk the road of Shannaknuck that winds around Liscreagh
And from you my dear country I've never been away
Your hedgerows in prime beauty wear their green cloaks of May
And winter just a memory and birds pipe all the day.

---

You tell me all People are equal

by

Francis Duggan

Don't tell me that all men are equal and that all women are equal to men
Since I can only see inequality in a world of corruption and sin
The poor seem to be getting poorer and far too many in poverty
And the wealthy are getting far wealthier that's how it would appear to me.

You tell me all people are equal at least in the eyes of your god
But that not hundreds but thousands each day die of hunger don't that seem just a little odd
For god whom you swear believes in equality should seemingly turn a blind eye
Whilst thousands for food keep on crying out as they slowly and painfully die.

You do seem an honourable fellow and your heart is in the right place
And you do some good work for charity and worthy causes you embrace.
But when you say all people are equal the words you ought to use are should be
For a fair go for all a misnomer in a world of inequality.

There are so many single mothers who struggle just to make ends meet
On low incomes they provide for their children and their social lives are obsolete
And this not a third world country though not all with that would agree
And don't tell me all people are equal when so many poor souls I see.

When you tell me all people are equal I do feel quite sorry for you
For you are a good sort of a person and to your beliefs you are true
But for one who helps the poor and needy I thought that you ought to realize
That not everybody is equal and not even in your god's eyes.

---

Song of the Brush Wattlebird

by

Francis Duggan

I hear him early in the morning sometimes even before daybreak
Before dawn's light shines in the window he tells his neighbours I'm awake
On the banksias and the wattles seems more like a call than a song
Sounds like that he has laryngitis or with his vocal chords something wrong.

He's never been famed as a songster like skylark he upwards don't fly
To welcome the dawn in the morning and carol and sing in the sky
With butcherbird, blackbird or magpie as a songster he cannot compete
But he don't seem less energetic and dawn he seems happy to greet.

The brush wattlebird seems a plain bird with feathers mostly brown to gray
But they can look very attractive when seen in the bright light of day
Their chestnut underwings look pretty you see it whilst they are in flight
What's dull at first glance can quite often seem much prettier at second sight.

His cousin the red wattlebird is far bigger though his voice sounds even more hoarse
But they've been created by Nature to sound far more grating and coarse
Than all of the other wild songsters who sing on every bush and tree
Though many will tell you that birds sing only to mark their territory.

The voice of the brush wattlebird once heard is something one could never mistake
I often hear them in the morning they call even before daybreak
They are not renowned for their beauty and they are not renowned for their song
But they too are children of Nature and in Nature's garden belong.

---

Lines on a visit to Port Fairy

by

Francis Duggan

I walked Pathway that led through muttonbird colony
On Island off Port Fairy by the sea
In latter march a bright though breezy day
With voice of seagull ringing down the bay.

On easter sunday nineteen eighty nine
A breezy day of spasmodic sun shine
Sweet scent of sea and tide sound in my ear
And weather pleasant for the time of year.

Muttonbirds dig their nest holes in the ground
And their nest burrows were plentiful all around
And I quote from ornithologists who know best
That this year same Muttonbird use last year's nest.

Parent muttonbirds gone fishing out to sea
Leave behind them their nest bound families
Their three months old nestlings unable yet to fly
Future earth born distant travellers of the sky.

In metre deep burrow in fore shore sand
I searched along it's bottom with my hand
Felt the soft down feathers of a sea bird's breast
A young near full fledged nestling in it's nest.

In Island off Port Fairy by the sea
With voice of seagull ringing down the bay
I walked Pathway that led through muttonbird colony
On easter sunday quite a pleasant day.

---

On Seeing Little Lorikeets

by

Francis Duggan

They looked like African lovebirds that I see
On trees near Dimboola in the Vic Mallee
But then I told myself this cannot be
As African lovebirds in Australia don't live free.

Lit by a shaft of bright april sun shine
On pleasant evening in middle autumn time
Small green feathered Parrots with red faces and dark bills
On eucalyptus branches uttered high pitched trills.

It took me back to photograph I'd seen
Of litle red faced parrots dressed in green
That fly from tree to tree in daylight hours
In search of fruit and eucalyptus flowers.

And t'was then I realized that I had come to meet
The smallest of the lories little lorikeets
Near Dimboola town on small roadside Parkway
On eucalyptus trees on sunlit april day.

---

Lines on meeting Maura Frehill

by

Francis Duggan

When I think back in years to come my memory will dwell
On that saturday night in february at the Normandy hotel
I'd been drinking all the evening and my thoughts were far away
In those fields by Clara mountain where I'd spent so many a day.

When a lady came up to me and she asked are you a poet?
I answered her quite frankly only doggerel I've wrote
But I do know about poetry and about poets know my share
And I've read the works of Wordsworth and John Masefield and
John Clare.

She told me she hailed from Cavan that's in Ulster in Ireland
And that her name was Maura Frehill and I clasped and shook her hand
From a place called Ballyconnell I have never been to there
Though I'd love to see all of Ireland and I will some day I swear.

She sat down at my table and we chatted for awhile
And she won me with her beauty and she flashed a cheerful smile
A lovely Irish Cailin and her young heart free of guile
She had travelled far from Ireland to Australia many a mile.

One could tell she came from Ireland as she had an Irish face
Fair skinned, brown haired with cheerful ways a trait of Irish race
A twenty five year woman and she yet not in her prime
And were I a poet I'd pen for her a worthy poem that rhyme.

I'll remember Maura Frehill she'll live in my memory
That lovely Irish lady I met in the Normandy
That pub in Melbourne city at the heart of Clifton hill
A long long way from Cavan's lush green meads and rippling rills.

---

I called her Rose from England

by

Francis Duggan

She told me she come from England from England far away
And that in Liverpool on Mersey side she spent her childhood days
And that she has spent most of her life here in Australia 'I'm quoting what she say'
And I'd like to get to know her better but then I never may.

From Liverpool in England I have never been to there
A beautiful young woman with blondish wavy hair
Hometown of the Pop group Beatles who won world wide acclaim
The night clubs by the Mersey gave them their start to fame.

Why I did not ask her for her name? don't know the reason why
Perhaps I lack the courage or perhaps I felt too shy
Or perhaps I'm not inquisitive or I'm not one to pry?
Don't know myself the reason since I'll not tell a lie.

She works in Hampton Park fruit shop and she tells me it's part time
A beautiful young woman and she yet not in her prime
From Liverpool in England twelve thousand miles or more
To Melbourne in Victoria on Australia's sunny shore.

I call her Rose from England Rose from the Mersey side
A friendly charming person untouched by foolish pride
I'd like to get to know her better and ask her out for tea
But it's not what I do think of her it's what she thinks of me.

---

The good condemned to suffer

by

Francis Duggan

She left this world in middle life just only thirty seven
And she went to a better land a land that we call heaven
Her children and her husband Matt her kith and kin heartbroken
But she is in a better world if that to them's a token.

I met her twice just only twice and she seemed a real nice lady
A cheerful and kindhearted soul and in her nothing shady
Last met her in Wantirna south at eighteenth birthday party
And she was in a jovial mood and she seemed hale and hearty.

In Croydon church my ice cold heart it melted down to water
When her husband Matt walked down the aisle hand in hand with their daughter
As sad a thing as I have seen since I came to this city
But what use to them my sympathy what use to them my pity.

This world can be a rough old place and it keeps on getting rougher
And as always seems to be the case the good condemned to suffer
But Janice need suffer no more she's in a world that's better
And she left behind good memories and her friends will not forget her.

---

In South Gippsland in September

by

Francis Duggan

On the fruit trees in the gardens the pinkish blossoms are in bloom
And by the roadside fences yellow flowers are on the broom
And the flute like notes of the magpie have such a melodious ring
In south Gippsland in september in the infancy of spring.

The weather not too cool or warm it's a near to perfect day
And the nesting gulls are calling on the cliffs above the bay
And the bubbling song of the butcherbird is a joyful thing to hear
In south Gippsland in september it's a pleasant time of year.

The lark above the coastal scrub is carolling as he fly
And upwards he's ascending a small speck in the sky
And hidden in a tuft of grass her eggs warm beneath her breast
In south Gippsland in september his mate sits in her nest.

The pleasant sounds float to me in the freshening coastal breeze
Of crimson rosellas chirping on gum and wattle trees
And the hoarse cacklings of the wattlebirds are familiar sounds to me
In south Gippsland in september where the land meets the sea.

---

When I want to see beauty

by

Francis Duggan

When I want to see beauty I need not travel far
Not even for a short drive in a car
Outside my window on flowering callistemon tree
A natural thing of beauty there to see.

The new holland honeyeater in his dark and gold
A bird of beauty lovely to behold
He chirrups loud amongst the leafy bowers
And take his fill of nectar from the flowers.

When I want beauty all I have to do
Is walk near my home down shady avenue
Where white backed magpie on the tall gum sing
In nature beauty is a natural thing.

For beauty money I don't have to pay
Or purchase flight ticket to far away
At night I see it in the starry sky
A thing of beauty is a thing of joy.

And the finest of beauty you don't pay to see
Like a red rosella on a sunlit tree
In Nature's garden living wild and free
And you won't see any prettier than he.

---

Patrick MacGill

by

Francis Duggan

He hailed from Glenties County Donegal
And was hired out to farmer before he was thirteen
And later on he readily did recall
The hardships he endured and the things he'd seen.

He went to Scotland worked with navvy gangs
And in a work shack his first verses he wrote
And for success he did not have long to wait
As fame came early to the navvy poet.

In his autobiographical novel 'The children of the dead end'
He told of the hardships endured at the time
By boys who worked as hard as full grown men
And were worn out before they reached their prime.

He told of characters like 'Moleskin Joe'
He'd lose his week's wage in a poker game
He laboured hard for every bob he earned
But never had a penny to his name.

In his time there were many great writers
Such as Kipling, Masefield, Eliot and Yeats,
James Joyce, Eugene O Neill and Hemingway
As well as many other literary greats.

And though literary critics may not rate him amongst these
They tend to under rate Patrick MacGill
I enjoyed his verses as a school going boy
One of my favourites then and a favourite still.

---

To another land their hearts belong

by

Francis Duggan

When he and she one day will become migrants
And from their own homelands live far away
The longing in them will be to return
And not as migrants to grow old and gray.

To spend their best years in their own home country
Nostalgia in the migrant is always strong
They may have settled in their new surroundings
But to another land their hearts belong.

They socialize with People from their homeland
As many migrants are inclined to do
But still they think about their friends back yonder
There's no friends like the old friends you once knew.

It's been said that migrants should embrace the culture
Of the land thet they have chosen to live in
But many of their own kind would look on that as treason
And few would wish to be guilty of such a sin.

Some become migrants due to war and famine
They lived in fear of an enemy attack
Their cities and their homes destroyed by bombings
And sad for them they never can go back.

When he and she they leave their own home country
For to live and work in cities far away
They don't forget their homeland friends and family
And their dearest wish is to return to stay.

---

Jake La Motta

by

Francis Duggan

He fought greats like Fritzie Zivic, Marcel Cerdan and Sugar
Ray
A legend then and a legend still today
And few could hope to match it with him in his prime
And he remains unbowed by father time.

Jake La Motta's is a legendary name
And he is in the boxing hall of fame
In his prime years he seldom knew defeat
And he never was an easy man to beat.

The Bronx Bull the nickname he is known by
A brave ex ring warrior and men like him don't easily die
As well as in the fight game from life big hits he's had to take
And few if any tougher than old Jake.

He's eighty one years young and still going strong
And to the true ring legends he belong
In his prime years a real hard nut to crack
And one well might say he's been to hell and back.

Robert Di Nero starred in a film on his life
And he presently is with his seventh wife
And the grim reaper is obliged to wait
For Jake La Motta the old boxing great.

---

Oh I must go home again

by

Francis Duggan

Oh I must go home again while the fields are richest green
And the trout for fly are leaping from the dark pools of the stream
And the linnet's singing gaily midst the shrouded cypress screen
That stands beside the cottage of my true love Kathleen.

Oh I must go home again while the fields are full of flowers
And hear once more the cuckoo predicting summer hours
While the vixen she is hunting for her young cubs in the den
And the matronly ewe is bleating to her frolicsome lambkin.

Oh I must go home again for t'is there I do belong
While the thrushes and the blackbirds and the robins are in song
While the swallows are returning to swoop and sail and soar
O'er the fields and vales and moorlands where they flew last year before.

Oh I must go home again for I'm lonely night and day
And I'm thinking of my homeland and my friends so far away
I came to this great city to add riches to my name
But the one thing I'm regretting now is that I ever came.

Oh I must go home again t'is there I long to be
For I know my brown eyed Kathleen is still waiting there for me
In my dreams I run my fingers through her sheeny raven hair
One could search the whole world over and not find one half so fair.

Oh I must go home again while the grass growing breezes blow
While the lark is singing sweetly and the wild cock pheasant crow
For I'm lonely in this city and my mind can know no ease
When it's spring time in my homeland and the leaves bud on the trees.

---

When I was a young fellow

by

Francis Duggan

When I was a young fellow and I lived near Millstreet town
I often heard the little wren in his cloak of darkish brown
In april in the hedgerows he carolled loud and long
And for such a tiny fellow he had a big bird song.

When I was a young fellow a little country boy
I believed this place called heaven was somewhere in the sky
And now that I know different in sadness I recall
That our years of childhhod innocence are our best years after all.

When I was a young fellow a five or six year old
I believed that at the rainbow's end there was a pot of gold
And forty nine years later it saddens me to know
That it was just a fantasy a tale from long ago.

When I was a young fellow when the winter winds did blow
I could tell where the fox had travelled by his paw marks in the snow
To me it was a miracle and sad am I to realize
That the world seems very different in an older Person's eyes.

When I was a young fellow Oh I remember well
That I believed in heaven and I believed in hell
But now that I am older and I see things differently
I realize that for my loss of innocence the big loser is me.

---

Wonthaggi in Victoria

by

Francis Duggan

An old town in Victoria with a colonial soul
Wonthaggi in south Gippsland where men once mined for coal
Where miners once took on the government in their fight for a better wage
In historical Wonthaggi the union came of age.

Wonthaggi in Victoria it has a glorious past
But back in the late sixties the changes happened fast
And Wonthaggi was the poorer when the coalmine closed down
Though life went on as usual in the old coastal town.

The long dead miner's widow her hair is silver gray
She came from northern Italy in Europe far away
She says me come to this country in nineteen thirty nine
And me husband was an Aussie and he worked in the mine.

She raised her five children in the forties and the fifties and in hindsight she recall
That the old days though quite hard days were her happiest days of all
And though some of her children and grandchildren in Wonthaggi live today
The old days were the best days for the one from far away.

To Wonthaggi in Gippsland the seasons come and go
And the young boy with the football dreams of fame he yet might know
When he plays in the grand final where he plays his finest game
And in Aussie rules forever his a legendary name.

Since the mine closed in the late sixties the changes have been happening fast
In Wonthaggi which still has strong links to it's colonial past
And the last of the old miners who came south from far away
Are now getting old and weary and have known a better day.

---

I only love the quiet and lonely places

by

Francis Duggan

No I don't sing the anthem of Cork city
The green green banks of my own lovely Lee
I'd much prefer to sing of distant mountains
Or places like the woods of Reanaree

Where the red squirrel nibbles on her spruce cone
On higher spreading branch of tall spruce tree
And wood pigeon is cooing in the morning
The wild and lonely places are for me.

No I don't sing of Melbourne and it's buildings
The city by the yarra deep and brown
I'd much prefer to sing of woods of Sherbrooke
And quiet and remote places out of town.

Where mountain ash the giant of the woodland
His higher branches seem to touch the sky
Stand silent on a windless day in autumn
The memory of such beauty never die.

The wild loud laughter of the kookaburras
And the white cockies squawk but never sing
And all day long the grey shrike thrush is fluting
And butcherbird's notes have a bubbling ring.

No I don't like to sing about the cities
Suppose in many ways I'm not so poor
I only love the quiet and lonely places
With Mother Nature I feel more secure.

---

Where I came from and here

by

Francis Duggan

Where I came from accomplishment means power of money
Unless of course you've known sporting success
And things are much the same here in Australia
If you are poor others you won't impress.

And though I've climbed to the cross at the top of Clara
High above the fields and woods of Claramore
That never would be seen as an achievement
As many others have done that before.

For recognition I then turned to writing
Only to find my verses would n't sell
I must have been a bad boy in my past life
For to be condemned to writing doggerel.

I left Ireland because my life had been going nowhere
In search of better fortune and renown
And I'm even more anonymous in this southern country
Than I have ever been in Millstreet town.

I know that many see me as a failure
As I've always lived quite close to poverty
Though I won't be losing any sleep to worrying
Of what other people think and say of me.

The Cromwells and the Hitlers are remembered
Though countless people by them speared and shot
It's sad to think that they live on in history
When all their innocent victims are forgot.

And their victims all good and decent people
And to be different was their only crime
The evil doers though looked on with disfavour
Still spoken of despite the passing time.

I once walked through a valley full of roses
And I heard the dipper sing in a clear flowing stream
But sad to say I felt so disappointed
To wake and find it only was a dream.

Perhaps my dream was of a better world
The far off hills green from a distance seen
But when you reach that hill you find out different
And after all it is not quite so green.

Where I came from and here is not so different
And societies everywhere are much the same
The millionaire always seen as successful
As wealth and power go hand in hand with fame.

---

My first lessons in Nature

by

Francis Duggan

My first lessons in Nature were learnt by my old home
In the woods and fields near where I lived I loved them as my own
The blackbird whistled in the gloam as shades of night did fall
And robin carolled on the hedge by the old garden wall.

The woods and fields by my old home I visit them again
Where in april the birds formed their nests in sunshine and in rain
And the swallows they were home again from places far away
And to old shed rafter to form their nest they carried bits of clay.

By late May the dunnock's year's first brood from bush to hedgerow fly
And their dad in his territory to sing is never shy
And their mum sits on her mossy nest in shady nook nearby
Her four blue eggs beneath her breast she keeps them warm and dry.

And though I've learnt my first lessons from nature some fifty years ago
Of the secret ways of natural things I still have much to learn and know
The wild duck's green eggs well concealed in rushes by the stream
Of nature's countless secrets so much to learn t'would seem.

The vixen with her keen sense of scent sense danger near around
She utters forth a low growl her playful cubs bolt to ground
Teaching them the lessons of survival and making them aware
That man and his dog their enemies and of them to beware.

The bullfinch with the rose pink breast singing on the sunlit tree
He's not the finest songster but few look beautiful as he
He eats the blossoms on fruit trees with his plainer looking wife
But he is faithful to her and he mates with her for life.

In the fields and groves by my old home some fifty years ago
The goldfinch and the chaffinch and the greenfinch I got to know
Like many wildborn creatures quite secretive and shy
But by their looks and songs quite different and quite easy to identify.

In the brown bog by dark water pools I often searched around
For the elusive curlew's nest though her nest I never found
But an old man walking through the bog on his way into town
Said he found her nest with four pear shaped eggs of olive green blotched brown.

The owls venture out after dark and hunt whilst others sleep
And in the gloam the rats and mice out of their dark holes creep
And I learnt something of domestic beasts cat, dog, horse, cow and sheep
But Nature for the most part her secrets from us keep.

Yes Nature don't yield too many secrets at least that's how t'would seem
The dipper builds her nest of moss in hole in bank of stream
Cloaked by the moss and lichens and near impossible to see
Beside the babbling waters she raise her family.

The tiny brown wren with the big bird song never ceases to surpise
She raises a large family for one of her minute size
And the sparrow often under eaves she weaves her nest of hay
And you hear her nestlings cheeping in april and in may.

My first lessons in nature oh I remember still
The skylark on spring evening above the bracken hill
I listened to him carolling a small speck in the sky
A moment to remember and a memory to enjoy.

One of my first lessons in Nature I still recall today
I heard a wise old lady the years had made her gray
Tell of how the badgers lined their sett with dried grass at nightfall
The knowledge learnt from elders years later we recall.

She told of how the magpie builds her nest high on a mature tree
Of sticks and clay and fortressed with thorns to deter the enemy
And she lines her home with dried grass and six or seven greenish eggs she lay
And her young are self sufficent by mid to latter may.

My first lessons from Nature were learnt by my old home
The creatures of the fields and woods I loved them as my own
And still I learn from nature though some birds you know them by their song
And that bubbling voice coming from gum tree wood to grey butcherbird belong.

---

Sarah Magee

by

Francis Duggan

She had two loves one her husband who died quite tragically
And the other man her greatest love whom she no longer see
And now she lives with her pet dog in her house close to the sea
And life goes on as usual for brave Sarah Magee.

Many time a grandmother though her children don't live near
And the twilight years and getting old are things she do not fear
And for woman of three score and ten she has a youngish face
And little gray in her dark hair she's one who age with grace.

I like talking to Sarah for she has a humorous side
And she's loved and respected and she's known far and wide
She loves to go out dancing and waltz her cares away
She may be getting on in years but young at heart she stay.

She's had a hard life Sarah and in her story some tears
But she don't sit at home all night and mourn for her lost years
She merely gets on with living and in her nothing sad
And I have often heard her say that her worst days not all bad.

She's one who stands up for herself and not one to yield ground
And when she has something harsh to say she don't pussy foot around
And towards those who've wronged her in some way her feelings can be cold
But if Sarah likes you she's your friend and she has a 'heart of gold'.

Such an interesting human being of her one could not tire
And her humour is infectious she's a woman I admire
She do not dwell on her hard days and of sadness she is free
And I feel privileged for to know one like Sarah Magee.

---

Fred Hollows

by

Francis Duggan

Fred Hollows was a good and caring person and the world needs more of his kind
He helped many poor who had cataracts without him they would have gone blind
The true worth of any great person not fully realized till they have gone
Still in the Fred Hollows foundation the work of the great man lives on.

There ought to be more People like him such good causes he did embrace
He did not judge People by their colour or classify them by their race
He made life much better for many and to philanthrophy he was true
And for humanitarian causes he did as much as he could do.

Fred Hollows a man in a billion and his type of person so rare
He could have had millions in money but his gifts with the poor he did share
One of the last of the miracle workers to so many sight he restored
Without him they would live in darkness since surgery they could not afford.

Fred Hollows will always be remembered as the man who to many brought light
To poor People afflicted by cataract he restored the great gift of sight
His work lives on in his foundation and his legacy will remain
He worked on behalf of poor people and his likes we may not see again.

---

Home in May

by

Francis Duggan

Now the nesting birds are singing in the green woods far away
And above the bracken mountain skylark piping all the day
And the jackdaws are stick gathering in their cloaks of black and gray
And the hawthorns are resplendent in their white blossoms of the may.

Dark faced lambs they romp and frolic in the high field by the hill
And nature's wild flowers are blooming by the moss fringed mountain rill
And the cattle in lush pasture sit and chew their cud at ease
And the late spring days are pleasant around the twenty degrees.

It is May now in his Homeland the lushest and greenest month of spring
And on high branch of silver birch tree the territorial robin sing
His mate on her moss formed nest is sitting in a lower bush
nearby
His job to warn off intruders and around his borders fly.

It is May now in his homeland the greenest month of all of the year
And the swallows fly o'er meadows thousands of miles north of here
And though for years he has lived elsewhere and nostalgia he's outgrown
At this time of year the migrant remembers the woods and the fields of home.

Moorhen with her dark chicks swimming in the calm pool of the stream
And the chaffinch always singing when of home the migrant dream
And the curlew's notes re-echo in the moorland far away
And the home fields at their loveliest in their wildflowers of the May.

---

Song for a Fringe Dweller

by

Francis Duggan

There's never much in his account in bank safe flexi teller
But that's the way it has to be if you are a fringe dweller
And those who like to 'Pigeon hole' have yet to classify him
Not middle class or poor or rich of status they deny him.

He never was much use at sports or sought out sporting glory
Or been devout religious sort or read a bible story
With no desire to steal or beg and far too proud to borrow
He only live from day to day and don't think beyond tomorrow.

What is a fringe dweller you ask? to someone he's a brother
And he live on fringe of human flock like lamb without a mother
And those who like to pigeon hole of status will deny him
As he does'nt have a social rank for them to classify him.

He's not an artist or a poet that sort of life demanding
Athough they though know respect amongst their peers and have high social standing
And for any cause of any sort he's never been a fighter
And he sees himself as a fringe dweller and a simple doggerel writer.

---

To Gabrielle 'For John'

by

Francis Duggan

I kissed her goodbye in Ballarat and I boarded on the train
And she tapped the glass and waved at me through carriage window pane
'Saying' see you in Melbourne in two weeks time but how was I to know
That we were never more to meet no never ever no.

Five days went by and I phoned her flat her flat in Adelaide
And no reply 'methought' in Ballarat she's been delayed
And then I phoned her aunt who had bad news and through sobs of anguished pain
'She said' dear Gabrielle has gone to god we'd never meet again.

I know she's in a better land a land where angels dwell
But I do miss her miss her so my darling Gabrielle
I loved her more than words could tell and her love for me was true
And a dearer or more precious friend than her I never knew.

I do not seek any sympathy for anguish I've been through
But I miss my love with raven hair and laughing eyes of blue
And every time I think of her it aches me to the core
To know we're never more to meet no never ever more.

Cruel fate has taken her from me my hopes and dreams destroyed
And I feel lonely and alone a part of me has died
But I must get on with my life the world won't wait for me
And all too late to moan about what has or what might be.

---

McKelvey's Daughters

by

Francis Duggan

I do know Bill McKelvey he drinks in the Bayswater
An Irishman and a good man and he's got lovely daughters
He came to Melbourne years ago from Ireland and Tir Conaill
Land of the eagle of the north the great Red Hugh O Donnell.

His daughters Margaret and Carmel are charming girls and pretty
Bet you'd not find two nicer girls in all of Melbourne city
I've met them in the Normandy where Irish hearts grow merry
And old time Irish songs are sung old as the hills of Kerry.

Though born and bred in Melbourne town they do have Irish faces
And through their young Australian hearts the blood of Ireland races
With ginger hair and cheerful ways they show their Irish breeding
One good drop of Tir Conaill blood is worth one ton of feeding.

I've been to London and New york and to the back of yonder
But never met such friendly girls in all my days of wander
They win you with their cheerful ways it must be their upbringing
Those joybells in their carefree hearts forever keep on ringing.

I've known some nice girls I must say though I've not known that many
But nicer than McKelvey girls I never have met any
They've got a simple charisma that grows from self contentment
And in their young hearts there's no room for sadness or resentment

I do know Bill McKelvey and there's nobody better
And he's worked hard for what he's got and he's the real go
getter
He's lived in Melbourne for many years and drinks in the Bayswater
And he feels proud and rightly so of his delightful daughters.

---

To a Buttercup

by

Francis Duggan

You came up through the earth so deep and dark
To listen to the sweet song of the lark
And like the lark's song buttercup you bring
The beauty we have grown to love in spring.

You seem so glad to show your yellow face
In such a lonely and deserted place
The splendid beauty of your presence grace
The bank by where the free flowing streamlet race.

In the cool breeze of spring you nod and sway
And with your kin flowers seem to dance and play
And at the spring sun smile as if to say
We may as well be happy whilst we stay.

The lark which sings that sweet song it must die
And buttercup so too must you and I
But new born buttercups will come each spring
And listen to another skylark sing.

---

We can't always have what we want

by

Francis Duggan

In thinking about her you waste precious hours
And you won't win her over by giving her flowers
Or whispering sweet nothings like sweetheart or honey
She'll never be your's for you don't have enough money.

Though she told you that you're not her type you keep on persisting
And your best efforts to woo her she keep on resisting
She chooses to ignore you her eyes are on Harry
And he has heaps of money and him she would marry.

But young Harry he only has eyes for another
And the woman he wants happens to be her mother
But her mother wants George and George he wants Jenny
But Jenny feels strongly attracted to Lenny.

The woman you want has her eyes on one who wants her mother
And since she don't need you why not try for another?
Some times you feel pain when by the love bug you've been bitten
But of her you still dream and by her you've been smitten.

Fair Lisa next door to you feels quite attracted
But to her love signals you have not reacted
And despite the efforts to woo her that you have invested
The one that you want in you is not interested.

We can't always have what we want that goes without saying
And for love's disappointments in heartache we keep paying
He could have the one next door but he loves another
And the one he wants she wants one who wants her mother.

---

Give Port Arthur back it's beauty

by

Francis Duggan

Much about him has been written of his life and acts of shame
And for all the worst of reasons his has become a world known name
He shot to death thirty five people maimed and injured many more
And in half an hour of brutal hatred he left grief and pain and gore.

Long before Martin Bryant was heard of Port Arthur had the
dubious renown
Of where the British kept their convicts those who sinned against the crown
Those who stole to feed their children to Van Diemen's land
were sent
In the dungeons of Port Arthur their prime years of life were spent.

There the Irish freedom fighters for their beloved homeland pined
Half a world away from Ireland in Port Arthur jail confined
Their crime was to love their country and they were punished for their crime
Never more to see their homeland prisoners in a foreign clime.

In the world's first concentration camp Port Arthur People suffered pined and died
They were treated as inferior and their human rights to them denied
And in Port Arthur in Tasmania down south by the Tasman sea
Martin Bryant one april sunday went on his mad shooting spree.

Some say Martin Bryant is evil and others say he must be mad
But what he did was worse than evil he did something worse than bad
In Port Arthur in Tasmania he gave vent to his rage and hate
But those he murdered can't be brought back and they deserved a better fate.

There are good People in Tasmania good as you'll meet anywhere
And there's no evil in Port Arthur though evil things have happened there
There the English kept their prisoners from their homelands
far away
And the old jail of Port Arthur is their monument today.

On a sunday in april 1996 young Martin Bryant drove into Port Arthur town
Went into Broad arrow cafe gunned the dining tourists down
Why do such unworthy People live in human history?
When he's not worthy of a mention wipe him from the memory.

And burn the old jail of Port Arthur only ghosts of sorrow there
Why make history out of suffering human anguish and despair?
And give Port Arthur back it's beauty it deserves a better fame
Than memories of a callous killer and cruel acts of English shame.

---

Andy the reluctant hero

by

Francis Duggan

It's been seventy years if not more since Andy was school going boy
Since he played hide and seek with his mates in the old park of Fitzroy
But the years have flown so quickly his once brown hair silvery gray
And on looking back his young years seem like only yesterday.

In his prime he saw much bloodshed and the hard life he's been through
In the front line and the trenches years ago in world war 2
One of only few survivors of his gallant infantry
And decorated for his bravery there was none so brave as he.

If you ask him of the war years from such questions he might shy
He might say don't talk of those days seen too many comrades die
Those memories for him too painful he spent years trying to forget
Those brave mates who died beside him in the trenches cold and wet.

His brave comrades did not come home they were buried where they fell
And on Anzac day he don't go marching or go to the R.S.L.
And the medals for bravery that he received he gave to his grandson
And he won't want to talk to you of battles fought and won.

A reluctant hero from the trenches of Europe far away
And if you ask Andy of the war perhaps he well might say
That was so many years ago and he wants to forget
The bloodshed and the suffering and the awful stench of death.

---

The Jack I remember

by

Francis Duggan

Like his brothers Jer and Peter he never had a wife
And if he still lives he has known a long life
He worked for the Singletons Jerry and Bill
Jack Murphy from Inchaleigh by Clara hill.

A pipe smoking fellow quite spoken and shy
He was past his prime when I was a young boy
He told me he never spent much time in school
But the Jack I remember was nobody's fool.

The Jack I remember had hair silver gray
A sturdy built fellow and strong in his day
And he was as gentle as you'd wish to meet
And one of the wisest I knew in Millstreet.

Though he was past his prime when I was a young boy
He is one I'll remember till the day I die
And I wonder is he still in the land of the living today?
I hope so I hope so is all I can say.

---

A Confession

by

Francis Duggan

It must have been the effects of the beer
For he told me something I ought not to hear
Something that few men wish to brag about
But he was drunk and he let it slip out.

That he often thumped his ex wife around
And he often even kicked her on the ground
With him she must have had a rotten life
And not surprising she is his ex wife.

You'd swear that butter would not melt in his mouth
As he do not seem in any way uncouth
And he is one with a Uni degree
Yet there's more to People than the eye can see.

I am not one to act on his defence
But he also told me something that made sense
That he often watched his mum beat by his dad
A better role model he might have had.

I have n't spoken to him since that night
But now I see him as a lesser light
Since he confessed that his ex wife he abused
And at what he said I did not feel amused.

In science and physics he has his degree
Still he is not what I made him out to be
The worst judge of other people mut be me
And I hope it is the last of him I see.

---

Billy Braggart

by

Francis Duggan

He talks about his days of wine and roses
When he was the man young women wished to know
And of the many women he made love to
When he was twenty two decades ago.

Big Billy he was forty on his birthday
I'm still a handsome looking chap he say
But he is vain and he fights natural ageing
By dyeing his hair brown and covering his gray.

Big Billy says he still can charm the ladies
But that from love and passion he's having a brief rest
He wears a short sleeved shirt with an unbuttoned collar
To show off his muscles and his hairy chest.

He suffers from a hugely inflated ego
And he thinks there is none so handsome as he
And that he's admired by all the younger females
His imagination on him has run free.

Those who know him only call him 'Billy Braggart'
They say his physique has gone to his head
That since his wife left him ten years back and took their daughter
He has n't had another in his bed.

He likes to brag to all who care to listen
About all the beauties he has made love to
And in every town there's one like Billy braggart
Ugly, broad shouldered and six foot one or two.

---

Late October in Ireland

by

Francis Duggan

The leaves from the trees are beginning to fall
And the caterpillar seeks a crack in the wall
The month of October is slipping away
And winter comes closer with each passing day.

The garden flowers have disappeared from the lawn
And the salmon are moving up river to spawn
And the days getting shorter and the nights growing long
And the thrushes and finches no longer in song.

The rain fall in drizzle from sky gloomy gray
And cattle in wet pasture are bellowing for hay
And farmer depressed for the winter he fear
And fodder quite scarce due to very wet year.

Hedgerows lose their colour as winds strip them bare
And winter approaching 'the signs everywhere'
And grass growth almost ended and grass not so green
And wildflowers disappearing and few to be seen.

The wind blowing colder and the river in flood
And the water bank high flow the colour of mud
Late October in Ireland and winter so near
And song birds grown silent and weather severe.

---

A wet day on the Gold Coast

by

Francis Duggan

For the Gold Coast the weather is unspring like
It has been raining for most of the day
Still lorikeets chirp on the bottlebrushes
Of Mermaid waters overcast and gray.

Some people rave about the Gold Coat weather
You'd swear by them they never saw the rain
But all day yesterday t'was cool and showery
And this afternoon t'is cool and wet again.

But though the rain falls heavy on the Gold Coast
There are no floods and birds sing on bush and tree
And the sandy soil drinks every single raindrop
And surface water you will seldom see.

The beach at Surfers Paradise is empty
Sun lovers never swim on days like this
And 'sugar daddy' in a Broadbeach cafe
Has tea and fruit cake with his sexy miss.

It's not a day for swim wear and bikinis
Or mini skirts a foot above the knee
The hotels and the restaurants and cafes
Of the Gold Coast do well on days like these.

The rain is falling heavy on the Gold Coast
But birds are singing on the flowering trees
And though the sun shone brightly in the morning
A high today of twenty one degrees.

---

That man with dancing feet

by

Francis Duggan

I remember him that man with dancing feet
He was the finest dancer in Millstreet
At seventy he still seemed in his prime
And he could dance all night till closing time.

In the Bush bar Con and Kitty ruled the floor
Along with Cassidy and his wife from Rathmore
They showed the younger dancers how t'was done
And at jigs and reels they were second to none.

Some who did not know him thought him to be shy
But I knew Con D since I was young boy
And he always seemed to see the brighter side
And life for him was there to be enjoyed.

He lived in Coolikerane all of his life
And from Kiskeam twelve miles north he brought his wife
And the great wide world he had no wish to see
I've always envied People such as he.

He was always known by the nickname of Con D
Perhaps to distinguish him from his cousin Connie C
And if you asked for Con O Connor some might say
Who is this man O Connor anyway?.

I remember him that man with dancing feet
He was the finest dancer in Millstreet
At seventy he still seemed in his prime
And he could dance all night till closing time.

---

The lesson from the horse race

by

Francis Duggan

There's no such thing as gallant loser and there's no glory in defeat
And coming first is all that matter and victory is always sweet
For the winning horse and jockey there's a mighty hip hooray
And the jockey he is smiling victory has made his day.

The stable lad leads in his winner he has never known such joy
And the owner pats his race horse as if to say well done me boy
And there's applause for the winning trainer from the large onlooking crowd
And the horse is centre of attention and those who backed him clapping loud.

Near by stands the beaten favourite held there by his stable lad
And with no trace of the horse's owner and the trainer looking sad
In a thrilling photo finish beaten into second place
But he get little recognition for running such a splendid race.

Human life is like the horse race at winning post you've got to lead
Losers are quickly forgotten and to be loved you must succeed
You must strive hard for your glory and if you fail in your vital test
You too will be quick forgotten as winners are remembered best

And there's a lesson from the horse race and it read plain for all to see
If you live for admiration go for outright victory
And you will be the main attraction and all the applause will be for you
And like the poor defeated race horse there will be none for number two.

---

Don't believe them when they tell you

by

Francis Duggan

Don't believe them when they tell you it's a small world after all
For Planet Earth's a vast world and in any way not small
And though you meet some people who look you in the eye
And tell you they've been in every country you still wonder if they lie?.

In the wild and harsh antartic where few explorers only go
It's a vast and empty continent covered in ice and snow
Where the temperatures in winter over sixty five below
The coldest part of Planet Earth where only lichen grow.

Where the largest of the Penguins the Emperors in the winter
of the year
Under a flap of skin above their feet incubate one egg in weather most severe
In the seasons coldest and darkest days they huddle for body heat
And for weeks on end they have to live without a bite to eat.

The coldest part of Planet earth where only the hardiest thrive
And where people without resources could not hope to survive
Even Scott and Amundsen great explorers on their day
That they'd seen all of Antartica would hardly dare to say.

I doubt that anybody not even in their life time span
Could visit all of the towns in Asia from Russia to Pakistan
And see all of Australasia and the Americas and Africa and Europe north to south
On such stories of adventure I always have a doubt.

It may be just a saying it's a small world after all
But believe me it's a vast world and about it nothing small
And though I've done a bit of travelling and in a few lands I have been
It's a vast world that we live in and little of it I have seen.

---

The Pacific black backed Gulls

by

Francis Duggan

They feed along the sea shore every day
And often venture further out the bay
And roost on rocks by the Pacific sea
Where they feel safe from any enemy.

The juvenile birds all over brownish gray
Unlike the adult birds in their array
And adults white unders and head and feathers black
On tail and wings and shoulders and on back.

On Gippsland beaches birds I oft times see
The black backed gulls of seagull family
Though compared to smaller silver gulls their numbers few
The black backed gulls seem on the increase too.

When human venture near away they fly
These black backed gulls of human kind still shy
They feed along the sea shore all the day
And oft times venture further out the bay.

---

What we do unto others

by

Francis Duggan

It's so true what we do unto others unto our own selves we do
For if you cause others to suffer then bad things will happen to you
But if you treat others fairly and respect and kindness to them show
Then for that you will be rewarded and good luck and happiness you'll know.

What goes around always comes around and for our crimes we pay
That's how it is and that's how it will be for it has always been that way
And if you do bad things unto others and man's law can't bring you to book
Then karma for you will be waiting and you'll have your turn of bad luck.

We ought to learn from the lives of evil People so few of them of old age die
And if due to you others know hardship the good life don't expect to enjoy
For the law of karma is a fair law much fairer than the law of man
A law that has been around forever with man's evolution it
began.

What we do unto others we do unto our own selves that's how it is and it will be
And if I cause others to suffer then suffering too will come to me
And if not to me in a direct way then to one of my own family
For karma the one fair and true law for dealing with man's inhumanity.

---

Mick Cooley

by

Francis Duggan

Mick Cooley was a wise and clever fellow
He never put another person down
He was a son of Jim Cooley the blacksmith
Who had a blacksmith forge in Millstreet town.

Mick Cooley had two brothers Den and Jacky
They lived their lives in close proximity
Familiar faces in and around Millstreet
They were a very close knit family.

They lived their lives in Millstreet town the Cooley brothers
And Mick owned a public house on the main street
I still recall a quiet and gentle fellow
As nice a man as you might wish to meet.

I don't know where the nickname 'Cooley' came from
Though I know it belong to a famous clan
He seldom was referred to by his real name
Few ever called him Michael Sullivan.

The old faces of old Millstreet and Duhallow
In memory live beyond the graves of death
And Mick Cooley with the warm and cheerful greeting
Is someone that I never could forget.

Mick Cooley he is gone to the grim reaper
But in memory he lives on in Millstreet town
He was a quiet and unassuming fellow
And he never put another person down.

---

The Farewell Barby

by

Francis Duggan

You feel so happy when you meet an old friend
You clasp their hand and hug them in your joy
But I have felt such sadness in each parting
It pains me so to have to say goodbye.

It was to be our final get together
And the snags were sizzling on the barbecue
And the sun shone warm though thunder showers were forecast
And I could have done with a beer or two.

The farwell barby and Dean had a toothache
He sat and watched on whilst the others eat
I pity him and all the others like him
Who suffer from the pangs of aching feet.

Colin, Morris, Rob and their mate his name now slip me
All decent men their like are good to know
And Peter brash and arrogant young Peter
Stopped by to eat a snag and say hello.

Darren,Chris and Brett were pondering on their future
Where to next and where do we go from here?
Through 96 it was an uphill battle
But things may become better in new year.

And Warren sat there quiet as he is always
Perhaps he is too quiet for his own good
He does n't seem to have mates like some others
Though I feel that he is misunderstood.

But Helen is the one I'll best remember
The tears from flowing she struggled to repel
So sensitive and full of warmth and feeling
She hugged us all a last and fond farewell.

The handshakes and the final farewell wishes
May you be happy in the days ahead
And then we went our separate ways forever
When all the words of parting had been said.

You feel so happy when you meet an old friend
You clasp their hand or hug them in your joy
But I have felt such sadness in each parting
It pains me so to have to say goodbye.

---

Killer's Son

by

Francis Duggan

I am sick and tired of others treating me as I were dirt
Far too oft I've been insulted and my feelings badly hurt
Those who know me look down on me I'm jailbird's son is that a crime
Is it my fault Dad's a jailbird in a jailhouse serving time.

I watched as my violent father took my screaming mother's life
Watched him stab her in the kitchen with a pointy carving knife
Watched him stab her in the kitchen on the kitchen floor she died
With the blood flowing like a river from a wound in her heart side.

She nagged him as we eat super he had taken too much drink
He lost control of his temper did not even stop to think
I was frightened could not help her I a seven year old boy
Watched as my father stabbed my mother watched the one who bore me die.

I ran from that house of murder uttered forth a help me cry
Two policemen came up to me two policemen passing by
I told these men what had happened told them about the foul play
They put handcuffs on my father and took the murderer away.

He was tried in court by jury and condemned to jail for life
He was jailed for life for murder for the murder of his wife
I was took in by aunt Bessy raised with Bessy's family
Aunty Bess was a good woman Aunty Bess was good to me.

She was gentle and kindhearted Bess played a true mother's part
Aunty Bess was special woman she had goodness in her heart
Raised me as I were her own child gave me all the love she had
How can I ever repay her Bess the sister of my dad?.

How I loathed going to school then how I hated going to school
Hated all the other school boys to me they were cruel so cruel
They teased me and called me nicknames because of what my dad had done
Taunted me and called me killer I was nicknamed 'killer's son'.

I would leave that school each evening so dejected and alone
I would leave that school I hated and run all the way back home
I would run home every evening I would run back home in tears
With the Nickname of the killer's son still resounding in
my ears.

Thirteen years have passed since those days yet things have not changed much for me
I'm still treated as an outcast an outcast of society
Those who know me just ignore me look on me as tainted breed
Shun me as if I were poison as I were a poison weed.

I am sick and tired of others treating me as I were scum
Giving me the silent treatment treating me like I were dumb
For the sins of Jailbird father social rejection I pay
I am still the son of killer and killer nickname with me stay.

I must leave this town my hometown some day soon I'll board a train
Travel to a distant city change my first and second name
Travel to a distant city pull my roots and re-plant them down
Far from the degrading people living in this country town.

---

Old Sadie at the corner

by

Francis Duggan

Old Sadie a