Francis Duggan Poems

John had a happy childhood in Wonthaggi and he seems very happy to recall
Cape Paterson where he often played beach cricket and the Thaggi Oval where he played football
He swam and frolicked in the sea in Summer and his young years were free of any care
But like many others Melbourne to him beckoned and he was destined to live his life there.
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On the willow tree on the bank by where the old screw creek flow
The gold billed blackbird fluting his tunes soft and mellow
His ancestors were brought here a few centuries ago
But of the Lands they came from he would not even know.
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When you hear one talk of their Country that person has surely got it wrong
Since the Country you lay claim to is not yours but to the Country you belong
The World was here before we came and the World will be here when we have gone
And the Country without us will exist and life without us will go on.
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Never believe what any Government Minister tell you for on misinformation politicians seem to thrive
They are expert at spreading of propaganda and without deception they would not survive
They create wars and give rise to racism and they know how to make an enemy
And they mostly to blame for mistrust that leads to hatred and for a lack of World harmony.
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I fancy I can hear cock chaffinch singing
On hawthorn white with blossoms of the May
His wife in nest of brown moss on her eggs sit
In fork of tree from prying eyes hid away.
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Tree branches were often his ceiling and the cold ground was often his bed
And he had scary stories of Oregon to make the hair stand on your head
He spent his prime years at stock herding and in that wild land his fortune he made
And he was a straight talking fellow the type who called a spade a spade.
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It was the union of poetic icons and their life together full of love and harmony
And they left behind them marvellous poems and sonnets and together now they live in history
They rank amongst the great poets of their era and the literary critics respect to them pay
And their verses perhaps will live on forever and their works are very much alive today.
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He feels his life has spun out of control
And only darkness envelopes his soul
With living costs and a huge mortgage to pay
His redundancy cheque will not go a long way.
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Though the day is mild for the time of year and mild enough the weather
The Autumn leaves are falling fast as light as any feather
And ash tree now losing her leaves each day she's looking barer
A few months back in Summer's prime than her there was none fairer.
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To the Country that he fled from he never can go back
The poor bloke from the desert of southern Iraq
Long dark hair and a dark beard one of an oppressed race
He's in his early thirties but he has an older face.
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