Francis Duggan Poems

'Tis the call of the musk duck unmelodious though clear
That in the nearby river I obviously does hear
In the deep, wide and still waters that stretch a mile or more
To the white waves of saltwater where the Pacific breakers roar
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Though I've lived in this marvellous Country for many a Season and year
I'm not even a paper Aussie I would like to make that clear
I was born and raised in Claraghatlea near Millstreet Town far from this Southern Shore
Within view of Clara Mountain overlooking Claramore.
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In Claraghatlea near Millstreet town my first homeplace
To many today there mine would be a stranger's face
I have not been there for some thirty three years
And for what used to be I have shed my last tears
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What a pleasant way for Jenny White for her working day to begin
In her backyard a clucking lay away black feathered hen
Had seven newly born chickens with her to display
A thing for to bring joy to anyone's day
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Of the praises of death you will not hear many sing
But after all it is not such a bad thing
For death does not differentiate between the wealthy celebrity
And the homeless one living in dire poverty
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Due to feral and domestic cats small animals and birds are injured and dying every day
Though this is not the cats fault to them all small creatures are prey
They should be in wired in enclosures and not roaming free
The damage they inflict on birds and small creatures a sad sight to see
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Seems hard to trust one who does not trust you
Since trust is a thing that must be felt by two
Trust much like love does not survive one way
That it has to be mutual does seem true to say
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That it used to be popular happens to be so
But going back the Seasons this seems long ago
Most things in life never does seem to last
Humility nowadays is a thing of the past
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Such beautiful parrots of crimson, blue and mottled brown
Birds you may not see in the park ofacity or a big town
Graceful and beautiful in their own distinctive way
In wooded places in small flocks one sees them often though not every day
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Far north of this southern Country far inland from the Atlantic shore
The moon tonight is shining on the roadway to Rathmore
And in Donal Hickey's Inch Field the hunting vixen cry
Her fast growing cubs are hungry in their den somewhere nearby.
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