Francis Duggan Rose Poems

She lived with her blind mother beside a purling stream
In their little white washed cottage in the Valley of Rosheen
Her hair as dark as raven's wing and her eyes blue as ripened sloes
The sightless widow's only child the lovely maid named Rose.
...

A beauty in her younger years though beauty until death with few does stay
The former Rose of Carriganimma where might she be today
Does she like many others in hair dye cloak her gray
And with anti ageing creams smooth age wrinkles away
...

Her pink petals lay on the short grass beside the red brick garden wall
By the thorny mother that bore her the last lovely rose of the Fall
White butterflies flit in the garden in the warm sunshine of mid day
And the shrike thrush he pipes on a low branch in his cloak of light brown to gray,
...

In Cafe Saltwater overlooking the sea
You will see her there every day around three
Enjoying her cappucino she sits on her own
As one of great beauty she used to be known.
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She was nineteen years old the Rose of the Town
With brown eyes and shoulder length tresses of brown
But the reaper on all of our lives has the final say
And all is quiet and dark now where she does lay.
...

She was a former Rose of Port Fairy where the white waves of Pacific roll
But the years have left their mark upon her the years on us all do take toll
Though for one in her mid to late fifties she certainly does look okay
With anti ageing cream she hides time wrinkles and with brown dye she covers her gray
...

For the past twenty of her fifty years she's lived in Port Adelaide
And every day in the old Town a new friend she has made
Her nickname is 'The Coorong Rose' from the coastal lands from where she came
And she is one who doesn't take offence to be called by her nickname.
...

The rose she has gone back to Nature
Her petals on the grass by her mother tree lay
But memories of her blooming in the sunshine
With me till my own end will stay.
...

Upon the leaf litter that covers the ground
The faded rose petals lay scattered around
The last rose of Autumn has answered the call
Of the cold grim reaper and so too must we all.
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She looked so well dolled up the fair ageing rose
And few would believe that she does wear op shop clothes
She wears heavy makeup her gray hair dyed brown
And one would swear that she was from the wealthy side of the town
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I still remember her I do with blue eyes and dark hair
And I wonder where she might be today my lovely Rose of Clare
Is she still living in New York or back in her Hometown?
In that County in west Munster of cultural renown.
...

Fifteen years ago the prettiest in the old town
But with dark brown hair dye she now cloaks her gray
The passing years has stripped her of some of her beauty
A fading rose that's life as some do say.
...

In the sixties she was the Rose of Moorabbin and her the young men wished to know
But since then the rose she has faded for that was a long time ago
Her once blond wavy hair she dyes often for to cover the tell tale gray
And she has a more rounded figure women age and their beauty decay
...

Her shoulder length hair it is wavy and brown
The one known as the Rose of old Mortlake Town
And with a lovely smile and warmth in her hello
And dark blue eyes blue as the late Autumn sloe,
...

In her late teens and so attractive and all things about her so sweet
And she looked as fresh as the Spring wildflowers that bloom in the fields of Millstreet
She seemed unaware of her beauty and unpolluted by conceit
But when she left her Townland in Duhallow her i was never more to meet.
...

So beautiful and clever and gentle and wise
The woman with golden locks and chestnut brown eyes
And yet unaffected by guile or conceit
The nicest of those in their twenties who live in our street.
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The last red rose of the Autumn her scattered petals lay
On the grass beside her thorny mother tree for Nature's gleaners of decay
The dark to gray wingless insects who live their lives on the ground
Where fallen leaves and flower petals are such life forms to be found
...

In light brown hair dyes she covers her gray
The former Rose of MacArthur is seventy today
From her Hometown in South west Victoria she grows old far away
With her husband of forty seven years Tony in Byron Bay
...

In his memories of her she has not grown old
The fair Rose of Penshurst with ringlets of gold
That grew to her shoulders she has not aged a day
In his mind time has not left her looking wrinkled and gray
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Her shoulder length hair is the colour of washed shining gold
The Rose of MaCarthur lovely to behold
And brown as the ripe chestnut are her eyes of brown
The no 1 beauty of her country Town
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Sweet Rose has returned to her home by the sea
She is back now where she wishes to be
In the coastal tropics where it seldom does rain
She feels happy for to be back home again
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She was a beauty years ago she has known a better day
The former Rose of Glenthompson in brown dye cloaks her gray
A grandmother of 56 and a single divorcee
Three decades ago in her prime few as beautiful as she
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She hails from the old Countryside where the Wannon waters flow
The brown one with the brown eyes and hair dark as the native crow
That can be heard cawing in the paddocks where the Wannon slowly crawl
To the concrete ramp where it then spills down the natural rock wall.
...

In the mid sixties she was Meeniyan's Rose
And she looked well and she wore expensive clothes
And her nut brown hair she retains with the aid of dye
Still she looks her years though that she may deny.
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Wonthaggi Rose and how are you this morning
Your cheery smile it helps to make my day
The gold billed blackbird whistling on the wattle
Though the sun behind the rain clouds hid away.
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The Rose of Cornwall is the nickname of Jackie and though over fifty she still looks quite good
And she is witty, kind and very generous and she would only help you if she could
And every one who know her seem to like her and about her none have a bad word to say
And I've been told to help out the less fortunate she has been known to go out of her way.
...

She was the Rose of Gneeveguila Village when I was young so many years ago
With brown hair shiny as October chestnut and bue eyes bluer than the ripened sloe
And winning smile she never failed to win you there was a cheery warmth in her hello
And though many years have passed since I last saw her the memories live of one I used to know.
...

She told me she come from England from England far away
And that in Liverpool on Mersey side she spent her childhood days
And that she has spent most of her life here in Australia 'I'm quoting what she say'
And I'd like to get to know her better but then I never may.
...

There's years of sorrow in her eyes those eyes as blue as sloes
And her hair once dark is now quite gray she has a flattened nose
She's known the wrath of angry man she took his angry blows
But she once was young and beautiful the battered widow Rose.
...

She told me how her father worked as a coalminer
In Wonthaggi in South Giuppsland years ago
Deep in the mine shaft tunnelling and digging
The work was rough and hard and progress slow.
...

Rose from Bairnsdale lives and works in inner Melbourne
A four hour drive from her beloved Hometown
And from ground floor office from where she works in Collins Street
She hears the traffic passing up and down.
...

From Casterton in Victoria she lives far away
With hair dyes and hair tints does she hide her gray?
With shoulder length dark hair and lovely eyes of brown
She was a former Rose of Casterton Town.
...

The last rose of Autumn has gone to decay
Her petals on the grass by her mother tree lay
The last rose on her tree she bloomed in the Fall showers
One might say of her a queen amongst flowers
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Her eyes were as blue as the November sloes
The former Rose of Banteer was a beautiful Rose
And her shoulder length hair was as brown as the ripe chestnut of the Fall
In the Duhallow Village the fairest of all.
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'Tis true time ages everyone for that is Nature's way
The former Rose of Koroit with brown dye cloaks her gray
But one three decades younger is Koroit's Rose today
Our prime years go so quickly as some are known to say
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Her pink petals strewn upon the grass beside her mother tree
In full bloom a thing of Nature so beautiful to see
Where the gleaners of Nature's decay grubs, slugs and insects crawl
Last week she looked so beautiful the last rose of the Fall.
...

Have the years left their mark on her with dye does she hide her gray
The Rose of Caherbarnagh where might she be today?
When I was a schoolboy in the fifties she was eighteen or nineteen
A beautiful young woman as fine as I've ever seen
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So many hearts she had broken when she was young and sweet
The young males used to wolf whistle her when she walked down the street
But now she looks much older in the body and the face
Amongst the top Town beauties now she doesn't rate a place.
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Where might she be now the Rose of Knocknagree
In her prime there was none as lovely as she
Brown eyes and shoulder length darkish brown hair
With her in Duhallow not one could compare.
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The former rose of Ballydaly where might she be today
And have the decades wearied her and has time left her looking gray?
One of Duhallow's finest when I was a Schoolboy
On looking back the decades how quickly time does fly.
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She was the Rose of Koonwarra when she was in her prime
But now she's in her late forties and bowing to father time
Her daughter now is twenty three and pleasing on the eyes
But beauty is so quick to fade the words of someone wise.
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I recall her with eyes of blue and shoulder length hair of brown
A young woman of great beauty the Rose of Millstreet Town
I wonder from Duhallow does she still live far away
She went off when I was a boy to the U S of A?
...

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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One can say she is a head turner they call her the Rose of the Town
With eyes as dark blue as the ripe sloe and her wavy shoulder length hair of brown
She sure is a beautiful looker but her beauty has gone to her head
To be the main focus of attention is not good for the ego 'tis said
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She now lays in the cemetery though life for her was hell
And her life a tragic story though that story I must tell
She migrated to here from London in nineteen fifty two
When she was only twenty brown haired with eyes of blue.
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The eggs and bacon on the frying pan are frying with a sizzle
And she looks out her window on the morn as the rain comes down in drizzle
A spinster in her late sixties alone though she doesn't feel lonely
There are many like her living on their own she is not the one and only.
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I fancy on the bog road I see her the one with blue eyes and brown hair
On a beautiful evening in Summer with the sweet scent of hay in the air
The chaffinch sing on the leafy hedgerow and on the ditch of the bohreen
The wildflowers in the sunshine blooming and everywhere lovely and green.
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The rose in bloom looks beautiful but the thorns on her stem can pain
And if you get pricked by a rose bush thorn the lesson you'll retain
And next time of those thorns you surely will beware
For a jab from the rose's defensive weapon needs some tender loving care.
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She brought such colour to our town her and her flowery clothes
With her dark and wavy curling hair the dark Zimbabwe rose
Her smile lit up the dullest day the warmth in her hello
And she will make many new friends where ever she will go.
...

She was the Rose of Yarram when she was in her prime
But she like all of the rest of us cannot turn back the hands of time
Despite the hair dyes that she use to hide the tell tale gray
She's not the beauty she once was all roses fade away.
...