Francis Duggan Poems

In Claraghatlea my old Townland song birds sing all the day
And the fields by the old streamlet flushed with the flowers of May
And the hawthorns on the hedgerows cloaked in blossoms white as snow
And the moorhen she is chirping where the Finnow waters flow
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The coastal breeze is so refreshing and beauty is all around me
And the silver gulls rest in the sunshine in a park overlooking the sea
The wind driven waves of saltwater are lapping on the sandy shore
And above the bridge to Phillip Island the black backed Pacific gulls soar.
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In the backyard upon a wattle tree
A brown bird with gray under throat I see
An Olive Whistler whistling loud and clear
His distinctive song so beautiful to hear.
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For to run to him now seems such a heavy slog
And his fastest pace to a young man a jog
He is in his mid fifties and well past his prime
And he ought to at least respect old father time.
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Some people have a sad story to tell
I know this woman she has been through hell
Her war torn Homeland she was forced to flee
And she arrived on these shores as a boat refugee.
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The only man she ever loved his bones in black earth lay
And she in her mid forties is showing her years in gray
And she does not use dyes or tints for to beautify her hair
And how she looks to others she says she does not care.
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Patriotic fervour and National pride
These things are prevalent nowadays Worldwide
Many say they unite but in truth they divide
When those who are different of free speech are denied.
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In the dark of the morning just before daybreak
The song of the magpie one cannot mistake
The black and white bird with the beautiful song
To Nature's great songsters he surely belong.
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Smirking Peter Costello wee Johnny Howard's heir
What his views are on others I do not much care
Since he is only courting the Conservative right
I would not trust him with my life though he is cunning and bright.
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The stream from Kippagh mountain downhill babbles it's way
Through the fields of Ballydaly by overnight frost made gray
Along by the brown hedgerows by Winter winds stripped bare
The coldness of late February is in the morning air.
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