Francis Duggan Poems

There is truth in the saying where there is a will there is a way
And tomorrow will come in it's own good time as the wise one did say
And you cannot change what has happened yesterday since yesterday has gone
And the now is all that does matter and life does go on
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Though i am one who has penned reams of doggerel
Of my life i do not have any great stories to tell
Of material or sporting success or being successful at anything
Though the praises of others in rhyme i often do sing
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On a dark and wet Winter's night in the old country town
On the main street few cars and trucks pass up and down
And the hunting boobook owl in the park nearby
It's often repeated mopoke on the tall trees does cry
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It's kind live in the high woods near the hills where the bracken does grow
The bird hated by sheep farmers the silver back crow
Since to kill newly born lambs it's kind are known
No mercy to them by the farmers are shown
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Most human beings who die in an unnatural way die at the hands of their own kind
The names of so many mass murderers do come to mind
So many far too many even to attempt to name
Who have died with the guilt of humanity's greatest crimes of shame
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To be kind and compassionate and a great wife and mother were her claims to fame
Before she married Con Duggan Catherine Murphy was her name
An only child of Andrew Duggan who hailed from Lisnaboy
Con died young in his early forties a long life he did not enjoy
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The very wise woman she said to her son
If you cannot love yourself you cannot love anyone
The truth in her words is worthy of recall
If you cannot love yourself you cannot love anyone does apply to us all
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By Cashman's Hill in St Mary's from here far north and far away
Many of the deceased people of Millstreet Parish lay
It is a cold place on a Winter's day
When the grave sites in frost are cloaked in gray
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Tomorrow is coming and yesterday has gone
And we live in the now and life does go on
And though any success in life you may find hard to win
You do make the World better for to live in
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It is not for the dead that one ought to weep
But for the living poor condemned to sleep
In drafty disused factory doorway or a door-less shed
Uncovered with the cold ground for a bed
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