Francis Duggan Poems

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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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