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Poems By Poet Francis Duggan  3/6/2015 10:22:53 PM
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  4397.     

In Early December By Clara

It has been twenty three years since I last lived in Millstreet
In Claraghatlea in view of Clara where the Cails and Finnow meet
In early December the hills hatted in snow
And the stream in brown flood waters to the river does flow
Through the rain-drenched fields and by ditch and hedgerow
At a time of year when nothing seems to grow,
In early December by Clara from here far away
The birds never sing at the dawn of the day
The overnight frost leaves the old fields looking gray
Many weeks from early December till the birth of the May
The cattle in farm sheds bellowing to be fed
And hungry birds by the back door pecking crumbs of bread
And the wintery winds blow down from Claramore
Many miles inland from Hibernia's shore.
 
Francis Duggan
   
 

   
   
 

  4398.     

In Every Race

In every race and in all people the good and the bad you will find
Though many of us tend to be blinkered to the faults of our very own kind
We see our own race as quite flawless but there of course we have it wrong
We are not any different to others to the one human race we belong
Tis our flaws that does make us human and living saints do seem quite rare
And to say that one race is better than another to say the least is quite unfair
Tis said there are more than six billion people in the bigger World out there
And though many of them speak different languages and from each other look different their worth one can never compare,
The one to us who looks quite different is not that different to you and i
We well may not speak the same language but we are all born to die
In every race and in all people you will find some bad and some good
Though all of us do share a loyalty to the Land of our Parenthood
There are good and bad in all people and some weeds do grow amongst the flowers
And though to us they may speak and look different their blood it does flow red like ours.
 
Francis Duggan
   
 

   
   
 

  4399.     

In Fancy

In fancy he walks in the old fields again
And he hears the birds sing in the wind and the rain
And he hears the lark carolling at dawn of the day
The old hill from him doesn't seem far away
Why should he feel homesick when he can visualize
And he can hear the robin sing at sunset and sunrise
And the cuckoo he calls in the wooodland nearby
And the swallows o'er the moorland they chirp as they fly
And though he often talks of the hills far away
In the sunny Southlands his remains will lay
And here he will grow old more wrinkled and gray
And here till the end of his life he will stay
But in fancy he hear the clear mountain rill
Babbling down the high field from the foot of the hill.
 
Francis Duggan
   
 

   
   
 

  4400.     

In Fancy I Am Where The Powlett

In fancy i am where the Powlett is inching it's way towards the sea
And high above the rank and brown scrubland the skylark i hear and i see
His voice it cannot be mistaken as upwards and upwards he fly
Surely one of Nature's great songsters a small speck in the sunny sky
On down to the sea by the sandhills the Powlett slowly crawls along
And on high sunlit branch of a blackwood the grey butcherbird is in song
His familiar pipe so melodious to my heart he sings ever near
In fancy i am by the Powlett in distance a long way from here
To the old coastal lands of Kilcunda the Seasons they come and they go
To the once home of the indigenous Bunurong of their history little we know
Perhaps under the brown scrub by the river their bones at peace forever lay
In fancy i am by the Powlet in distance from here far away
The skylark sings as he flies upwards o'er the scrub by the saltwater shore
And over beyond the brown sandhills i can hear the great ocean roar.
 
Francis Duggan
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Francis Duggan