Francis Duggan


In The High Wood By The Old Hill - Poem by Francis Duggan

In the high wood by the old hill in the cool evenings of the Spring
The robin with the orange coloured breast on a silver birch tree sing
'Tis not for the joy of May he pipe or for the love of song
But to tell the other robins that this plot to him belong.

From the high wood by the old hill two hours before the sun goes down
The fields and hedgerows looking green that border the old Town
You are nearer to Utopia when you climb to higher ground
So lush and green the Countryside for miles and miles around.

In the high wood by the old hill the chaffinch I can hear
He always sings his finest song at this time of the year
His wife on nest sits on the five bluish red spotted eggs she did lay
And the hawthorns look resplendent in their white blossoms of May.

Through the high wood by the old hill the shades of evening creep
And birds are silent in their nests and only the mother sheep
Can be heard bleating to their lambs in the field nearby where the ever babbling rill
Flows on to the big river down the high field by the hill.


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, April 9, 2008



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