Francis Duggan Poems

Many of them with their words quite ambiguous 'tis their way of being wise
And for to cling to their positions of power they do tell heaps of lies
And we want to believe them we are naive one must suppose
The noxious weed it does not look or smell anything like a rose.
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We all have our phobias and we all have our fears
But lucky are they who can be moved to tears
At the sufferings of others, People they do not know
The gift of compassion on trees does not grow.
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Though many years now beyond her glorious prime
She will always be known as Koroit's Lady of Rhyme
So humble and gracious despite her renown
The literary toast of the old Moyne Shire Town,
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With tints and hair dyes do they cover their gray?
The girls of my youth they are ageing today
But in my flights of fancy they remain young to me
The girls of my youth I may never more see,
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In the cold winds of Winter she stands thorny and bare
In Summer large beautiful red flowers she did wear
The Rose tree of Winter not a pretty sight
At a time of year with litle warmth in the sunlight,
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The old hills of Sherbrooke of tall mountain ash trees
In fancy i hear the laughter of the kookaburra echoing in the breeze
Blowing through the high wooded country from here far away
But great memories of such beauty are with me today,
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By my old home far north of here the babbling rill did flow
I was born close to Nature but of Nature little i do know
On the hedgerows of the old fields the birds welcomed the Spring
One can only look on Nature as a most amazing thing
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Of good and bad races we hear of and read
But I've met with people of different races and of many a creed
And one race that's superior I cannot recall
For the good and the bad I have found in them all
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Though his type of bird around these parts are rare
One cannot mistake him for his bubbling air
Where trees are abundant their numbers abound
Though this sparsely treed Landscape not their type of ground.
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Two hours down the highway in the City of Geelong
Lives a woman who has inspired admirers to poetry and song
But as the Pride of the Moyne shire she will always remain
And in Hawkesdale her likes will never be seen again.
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