Francis Duggan Home Poems

Her mum and dad brought her to Australia
When she was two years old in seventy two
And you'd never know she once came from Ireland
As she speak and act as all Queenslanders do.
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The swallows Winter far from Hibernia's shore
And far south of the high fields of old Claramore
But they will return to raise their next brood in the Spring
The wonders of Nature an amazing thing
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The place I once called home is no longer so to me
And a migrant in this Land is all I can be
But I am happy to live here and here I will stay
Until the Grim Reaper on my life has his say
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My daddy won't be coming home my daddy gone away
My daddy gone to other World that's what my mummy say
My daddy gone to better World to World beyond the sky
And now I know dad won't come home for mummy never lie.
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I'd love to go home to Kallista it's beautiful there in the Spring
When crimson rosella is belling and little yellow robin sing
The magpie's voice herald the morning and grey shrike thrush sing all the day
I'd love to go back to Kallista to home of the great 'mountain gray'.
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To cypress tree the robin came to lilt and whistle daily
And Spring brought greeness to the fields back home near Ballydaly
And though winter months were harsh and long cool April brought the swallow
And cattle now were out on grass in all parts of Duhallow.
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He lives in a home in dollars worth more than five million the trappings of wealth he does like to show
And of his many material successes he wishes everyone for to know
Of since he has a very big ego far too big for his head one might say
But all of his employees will tell you that their work effort for him not matched by pay
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In Den and Peg Looney's cottage in Claraghatlea years before i grew into a man
And that is going back more than fifty years in time a lengthy span
On Winter nights around the fire grate there by local old timers stories told
Of Duhallow of their youthful years back in the days of old
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From my first home place i do live far away
To many in Claraghatlea i'd be a stranger today
As well as a stranger to many i'd meet
Where i went to school in the Town of Millstreet
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It may not be by Cashman's Hill my last remains will lay
But that will not matter to me when i've lived my last night and day
The migrant Athenian talks of Athens the migrant Roman talks of Rome
And i talk of Millstreet when i talk of home
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In his home in Texas in the U S of A
Is George W Bush feeling happy today
Or do he think of the people of Iraq far away?
For his idea of enduring freedom in suffering and death they do pay
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A comfortable home to live in and enough to eat and drink is all anyone need
And having this said the unhappy billionaire is a poor one indeed
The happy go lucky their needs in life small
There is truth in the saying one cannot have it all
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Loneliness does not have a home it does live everywhere
And so many lonely people in the big World out there
The man living on his own in his seventies grieving for his recently deceased wife
He has got to know loneliness since it has entered his life
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He never does yearn for places far away
In his old hometown with his aging local wife he is growing old and gray
Their children and grandchildren to them live near
The love of home to them remains ever dear
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The Land where the famous stout Guinness is made
And that Imperialist Armies often did invade
And that has suffered in the political and religious divide
A problem that now seems to be Worldwide.
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It may be London, Paris or Rome
For all of us there is a place called home
It may be Beijiing, Rio or New York
For me 'tis a place called Millstreet County Cork.
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An artist or writer would love this sort of a place
Where Nature has the smile of peace on her face
Away from the traffic and noise of the street
On the verge of the wood where peace and beauty meet
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Each person has a place of birth referred to as Early Home
If not in the big Cities of the World Cities such as London, Beiijing, Rio, Delhi or Rome
And if not from a bigger city then from some village or some town
Where so many begin their journey to disappointment or renown.
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We all have a place that we like to call home
To the Athenian it is Athens and to the Roman it is Rome
To the one born in Bombay his or her home Bombay
Though from their home city they may live far away
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With a young primary going son and daughter and a devoted wife
The stay at home fellow is content in his life
A family man content in his job one who loves his hometown
And one who never does yearn for worldly renown
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The gray shrike thrush he pipes on the black wattle tree
In the backyard of her little house by the sea
And four hundred metres from her front door
She can hear the big waves crashing on to the shore
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A valley that's locked in a volcanic rim
Tower Hill is the old home of the Budj Bim
As the first Australians of the Southern Land
Their culture far more respect ought to command
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I live far south of my first home in Duhallow Koroit in Victoria is now my hometown
In miles distant from Claraghatlea in view of Clara Mountain where i used to live when my hair was dark brown
From the fields of rook and jackdaw and badger and the predatory one known as the gray back crow
Where the Finnow from fields by Gneeves mountain to the Blackwater in Drishane does flow
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Your life journey may have begun in a place far away
But home is where you live now the house where you stay
Though the migrant Roman will tell you where he now lives is home
The home of his heart it will always be Rome
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He had been in distant Countries from his first home place far away
One who had witnessed many a sunrise and sunset distant from where he had first seen light of day
But that nostalgia does linger surely not a lie
He returned to the home place to grow old and die
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Many left the old Town by the river to work and live in Cities far away
From where they went to school and spent their early years and first saw light of day
But some remained in the Homeplace and there worked for lower pay
And credit them for their love of home those who at home did stay.
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Even in the Townland he was born and raised in he might now feel a stranger there
And in the Town he now live in he is seen as one from elsewhere
Home is where you feel contented wise people are known to say
And with such thinking i do not beg to differ as i too do see it that way.
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Oh you unlucky fellow you talk of your sad life
And in the pub with your mates you bad mouth your long suffering wife
She sits at home and waits for you and to you she is true
But just by listening to you talk of her one cannot say the same of you.
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Known to many as the would be home of broken dreams the ruins on the verge of the town
The timbers propping it up are decaying about to crumble and fall down
The woman who owned it she ran out of money and the builders from it walked away
And others builders they did not want to know her when they knew them that she could not pay.
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It used to be home for me Seasons ago how quickly the years seem to fly
And near two decades have passed since I last heard the lark above Clara hill in July
In Millstreet Town I'd feel a stranger today great changes have been happening there
Many of those I knew to the reaper have gone and others are living elsewhere.
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He never will go home again for time's not on his side
And he never more will see again the Atlantic at full tide
And watch again the rowing boats amongst the wild waves dance
From his sea side Village far north of here in Brittany in France.
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In the year 05 Joan and Joe will go to live in Inchaleigh in view of Clara hill
Close to the Finnow river and the Glasheen rill
Some distance from London where they have lived for some time
Their children young adults are now in their prime.
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Will the locals know him when they see him
And will they remember his name
Or will he feel a complete stranger
When he goes back to Kiskeam?
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She won't be going home for Christmas as she doesn't have a home to go to
And she is one of many and far too many who
Do not have a Homeland or a home to go to doesn't life seem so unfair
And thousands poverty stricken to every millionaire.
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Mt Eccles the home of koala and roo
Of wallaby, magpie and sulphur crested cockatoo
Where the shrike thrush whistle and the shy bronzewing coo
And the wooded gully echoes to the call of the weerloo
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I climbed the high ground up through Pomeroy's field
Beyond where grass to het and bracken yield
The birds piped in the wood at Claramore
And singing lark towards heaven's gate did soar.
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No matter where your wandering take you to
The memory forever stick like glue
Of the people and the places you once knew
They will live and they will die with you.
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Oh to be back home in Ireland now that April winds are blowing
And the weather getting milder and the green grass is a growing
And the breath of Spring is in the air and daylight hours grow long
And the skylark o'er the heather sings his merry April song.
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The sad music that is playing
Puts my lonely heart to straying
Far across the deep blue sea
Some faint voice is calling me.
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She will be home in Glasgow in Scotland far away
For the carving of the turkey with her family on Christmas Day
When the Parklands in her Hometown with frost are hoary gray
Nostalgia and wanderlust not that far apart they say.
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I am going home to Sherbrooke though the miles be long
To the hills of yellow robin and pied currawong,
I can see the narrow roadway as you travel down
From Gembrook to Cockatoo via Emerald and on to Belgrave Town.
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I will take you home to Millstreet when the may is in her bloom
And the green meads cloked with wildflowers scent of nature's sweet perfume
And the dark winged barn swallows white unders and throat rust brown
Wheel above the lush green pastures bordering Millstreet's country town.
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She miss the high woods east of Melbourne the home of the mountain ash trees
The clear fluting notes of the shrike thrush that seemed to carry in the breeze
And she miss her former friends and neighbours, no friends like the friends you once knew
And they seem so happy to greet her with a hug they say, good to see you.
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For the past ten years he had lived in the rainforest country
In northern New South Wales north of Lismore
And now back in Victoria in his old Hometown of Belgrave
A stranger where he was well known before.
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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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I remember in December it was cold and wet and gray
And I hope you keep the peat fire burning for to keep the chill away
From the lounge room and the bedroom you need warmth this time of year
Don't think I could live in Ireland I've got used of living here.
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He talks about his three young loves Amanda, Jane and Aggy
When he was young long years ago back home in old Wonthaggi
Till he grew tired of the old Town and its familiar faces
And his lust for wander stirred in him his yearning for distant places.
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My memory takes me back long years in time
To boyhood years long, long before my prime
When I was twelve years going on thirteen
But since so many leaves gone with the stream.
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The singing birds of Millstreet are calling, calling me
In my dreams I hear them whistling far beyond the deep wide sea
The green, green wood by Clara hill is always on my mind
On the day that I left Millstreet I left my heart behind.
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Now the nesting birds are singing in the green woods far away
And above the bracken mountain skylark piping all the day
And the jackdaws are stick gathering in their cloaks of black and gray
And the hawthorns are resplendent in their white blossoms of the May.
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