Francis Duggan Poems

Death comes to the living at the end of their life
It happens to the husband and it happens to the wife
It happens to the girl and it happens to the boy
Some granted a short spell for to live and enjoy,
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We never are too old for to stop learning and from life we learn a lesson every day
And it does not mean that you have to stop learning even though you have grown old and tired and gray
And those who think they know it all know little they go through life as blinkered one might say
The more we know the less we know we do know that's life and life has always been this way,
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He pens and sings his own ballads the Southern Grampians balladeer
And through the famous old shire he is known far and near
At pubs and clubs in Hamilton he often does entertain
A middle aged bush Poet and about him nothing vain.
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In 100 years from now
There will be pig, goat and cow
And donkey, horse, sheep, rabbit and hare
Though many wild birds and animals may be rare.
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Farewell to the travelling people their fame it was known far and wide
Their horse drawn vans are no longer to be seen on the by roads of the green countryside
Their descendants live a different sort of a lifestyle with the passing of the decades few things stay the same
And so it is for the children of the wanderlust people who too are often called out of name.
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'Tis true to the dead that respect we should show
But they still honour men who died ninety years ago
For a dubious cause in Lands far away
But the war that was supposed to end all wars is re-lived today.
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Crows are not good at singing caw caw is their only song
But those who say quite ugly birds have surely got it wrong
Their feathers dark and glossy have got a lustrous sheen
And they are very pretty birds when in the sunlight seen,
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Those enamoured by death who of immortality dream
Suffer of delusion or so it does seem
For in the scale of time everything seems to fade
And the dead cannot witness their memorial parade.
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The familiar sounds made by the male snipe above the bog at night
With wings and tail he makes a goat like noise whilst in his courtship flight
In Spring and early Summer him i often did hear
But that was many years ago and many miles from here.
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Across the place of stones and thistles known as the hungry hill
The harsh call of the kookaburra echoes loud and shrill
And down in the wooded gully the calls of the weerloo
In this the home of wallaby and the wild grey kangaroo,
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