I Am Going Home To Sherbrooke (For Vin) Poem by Francis Duggan

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.

Where the mountain ash are waving in the morning breeze
And the kookaburras laughing on the blackwood trees
In old Sherbrooke east of Melbourne many miles away
The wooded hills to me are calling I will go home one day.

Not unlike the sound that whip make when cracked against a wall
In the steep and wooded gullies the shy whip bird call
And on the damp days of Winter long before the Spring
On his mound in the forest clearing lyrebird display and sing.

And though I live far north of Sherbrooke where I first saw light of day
I still can hear the black and the white cockies calling many miles away
And I hear the squeaky door voice of the gang gang cockatoo
And I say to myself often Sherbrooke I still love you.

I can hear the magpie singing as dawn lights up the sky
And the butchebird is piping in the wood nearby
And the grey shrike thrush is whistling distinct by his song
I am going home to Sherbrooke to where I belong.

Where when darkness cloaks the forest the shy boobook call
And the little ring tail possum from her leafy nest crawl
And where the crimson mountain lories chirp on bush and tree
I am going home to Sherbrooke the hills are calling me.