Francis Duggan Poems

I would not die for God or for Country and to anyone why should I bow
Though millions would not see me as an equal in any way to their Sacred Cow
But why deny them their opinion and like 'tis said to each their own
And that wisdom is not born of knowledge is something that's all too well known.
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A federal Election is looming the politicians on the campaign trail
They turn to personal attacks on their opponents if fear mongering for them does fail
We deserve the people who represent us in life what is our due we receive
To lie to them does come so easy and the voters are not that hard to deceive,
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For murder in death by guillotine she had to pay
The legendary woman Charlotte Corday
With a knife she stabbed to death Jean Paul Marat
Whilst he was relaxing alone in his bath,
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Since I was twenty more than three decades in time
I have done my share of scribbling penned a heap of doggerel rhyme
With me it is an addiction I just scribble on and on
Though old age on me is looming and my better years long gone
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To those who do not have compassion for all living things as well as for human kind
For them I can only feel pity though their type are not hard to find
For if you lack in the gift of compassion and with others you cannot empathize
Then you must have a cruel streak in you and that's factual as opposed to lies
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I'm not one of busy man made places I love where the World is quiet
A wood where the songbirds are singing in the evening in the warm sunlight
A cool place by a creek or a river when the warm sun burns in the sky
Lying in the shade watching the dark swallows as above the landscape they fly,
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The paddocks looking yellow where the capeweed does bloom
And bright golden flowers on the gorse and the broom
And the flute of the shrike thrush is pleasant to hear
In the prime of September in the Spring of the year
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One of her young male admirers has penned for her a song
The lovely brown haired one the Darling of Geelong
In her early twenties and in her life's prime
She blooms like a rare Rose of the Summer time,
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The young man of the sixties tells of his glory days
On the day that his team won the flag he was singled out for praise
Shouldered by his team mates to the dressing rooms his goal had won the day
To the applause of the happy fans such memories never fade away
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On a tall beech tree the black and gray hooded crow
Caws in the gloaming where the Blackwater flow
Through the fields of Duhallow babbling on down
Through that old quiet countryside towards Mallow Town.
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