Francis Duggan Poems

I pity her 'twas her worst ever birthday
With so little money and big bills to pay
And the best years of her life sad to say for her gone
And only her will to live keeps her keeping on.
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In the high woods of South Belgrave from here far away
The bellbirds are singing in Birdsland today
Like many tiny bells their pleasant ringing sound
Echo in the woodland on the higher ground.
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He felt like a complete stranger in his Hometown
The main shopping centre he walked up and down
But none recognized him and none said good day
To them he was one from a town far away,
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Of financial successes one who cannot tell
The one who knows of life in an earthly hell
The house he lives in he cannot claim as his own
And many the trying times of late he has known.
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Young Rose of Duhallow with wavy brown hair
For physical beauty few with her compare
Her eyes as dark blue as the November sloe
On the wildering hedge where the Blackwater flow.
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Their name is a clue to their familiar song
The birds known to many as the pied currawong
In the wooded gully and on the higher ground
The echoes of their currawong notes resound,
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Upon your great life journey even in your own Hometown
For everyone that builds you up there is one to drag you down
To say so much may sound negative or some may see it that way
But you lose some for to gain some and such is life they say
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In my wild flights of fancy i return to the hill
And i hear the distinctive babble of the clear flowing mountain rill
That to the bigger river in a great hurry flow
By the old wood down the high fields and by many a hedgerow
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So few of us of sin are unpolluted
And so few of us 'twould seem are free of taint
You will not travel far to find a sinner
But in your travels you won't meet a saint.
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Fair dues to Willy Chaplin he treats all people fair
He accepts verse from everybody and people like him rare
The Webmaster of The Web Poetry Corner on his site he takes pride
He and his dear one Gipsy are known both far and wide.
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