When People Ask Me Where I Come From
I am just a peasant fellow without pretension to renown
But in some ways I feel lucky I was raised near Millstreet Town
And if anybody ask me where are you from anyway?
I tell them I come from Millstreet from a place called Claraghatlea.
Claraghatlea that sounds a strange name and where the hecks might Millstreet be?
I tell them a Town in North Cork inland distant from the sea
In green and fertile Duhallow with high mountains all around
Where you can view the finest scenery when you climb the higher ground.
Of Millstreet you paint a good picture but how do it compare to here?
We only read of wet Ireland where the skies are seldom clear
Not much point in pretty scenery if the weather's seldom fine
Give me Queensland and warm weather, golden beaches and sunshine.
With them I don't try to argue each to their own point of view
And what they read of Irish weather in some ways is partly true
But I have often been to Queensland and thought the climate hot and dry
And even in cooler Victoria risk of skin cancer is high.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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Return To Nature
Suppose I am one who has a big ego I did have big plans once I do recall
But egos are a thing that inspire in us the need for success and are part of human nature after all
And now that my ego is a bit deflated and others I don't feel need to impress
Something perhaps that came with the realization that my life never has been a success.
Still I am one who finds solace in Nature and Nature the only God of which I know
I've always marvelled at her strength and beauty and still my admiration for her only grow
I had a church God when I was years younger but I gave my unseen church God away
And I returned again to Mother Nature and in her bosom I will rest one day.
The free born birds that sing in Nature's garden each species is distinctive by their song
And the fox that hunts for rabbits in the paddocks these creatures all to Nature's World belong
And the wedge tailed eagle soaring in the calm sky a very large and fearless bird of prey
Too is a part of Mother Nature's World and in Nature's bosom this bird's bones too will lay.
The swallows fly to warm climes in Winter and return home to greet the warmth of Spring
And chase insects o'er the valley where they first saw daylight and as they fly one hear them chirp and sing
How they can find their way to a far Country in late Fall and in the Spring find their way home again
Is something for which scientists can offer theories yet somehow seems beyond them to explain.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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Four Schoolboys And A Dog
The countryside around wore Summer colours
The haycocks in mown meadows standing white
And the pasture fields surrounded by green hedgerows
Resplendent in the afternoon sunlight.
Four School going boys climbed the slopes of Clara mountain
Donal Hickey, Jerry and John Mahony and I
And Donal had his terrier 'Bonzo' with him
On that sunday long ago in mid July.
Four Primary Schoolgoing boys on Clara mountain
The countryside was beautiful to view
We picked and eat the whortleberries from the heather
The whortleberries small and ripe and blue.
The whortleberries ripe fruits of the heather
In July when ripe so beautiful to eat
You find them on the Cork and Kery mountains
Towards east Kerry from Macroom and Millstreet.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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Lines On The Australian Dock Dispute (98)
My sympathy is not with the sacked Australian wharfies
Compared to most others they are overpaid
The old tired fight the bosses versus the workers
On the Australian docks is once again replayed.
And my sympathy is not with Chris Corrigan of Patrick Stevedores
He sacked one thousand four hundred of his men
Because they all were members of a Trade Union
Is union membership nowadays a sin? .
But least of all my sympathies are not with the Australian Government
They only seek to conquer and divide
They are the greatest culprits in this conflict
But soon their fate the people will decide.
I can feel sympathy for farmers and exporters and importers
They are between a rock and a hard place
This power struggle is going to cost them millions
This dock dispute an Australian disgrace.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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On Passing Cromwell Street
In Melbourne streets named in his honour though he does not warrant such fame
For he lived a life of dishonour yet he never felt any shame
For his crimes against the poor of Ireland the winners write the history they say
And historians are too kind to Cromwell the one who did awful things in his day.
He evicted the poor of rural Ireland those who only knew of poverty
And put them on the hard road to Connacht the victims of crimes against humanity
His army were thugs and not soldiers for they did things that soldiers ought not do
The winners always write the history though their version of history is often not true.
In Cromwell's time the winners wrote the history and the winners still write the history today
But for any crimes against humanity the winners too should be made to pay
But Cromwell and his army honoured for their crimes in Ireland against the poor defenceless poor
'Tis sad to think that one so unworthy of a place in history is secure.
To hell or to Connacht his catch cry he forced thousands of poor families on the road
To people who were penniless and innocent not one scrap of mercy he showed
Thousands of them died in the harsh Irish Winter when homelessness on them took it's toll
Because they were poor they were punished though their life circumstances beyond their control.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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Anzac Day
Patriotic men and women from sixty down to sixteen
Rode proudly on their horses in the famed Anzac green
Followed by the women of the Red Cross in their renowned white and red
On this day every April they honour the war dead.
Up to the war memorial where a large crowd stand around
And at the front of the congregation old 'Diggers' to be found
Old veterans of World war 2 they show their years in gray
Their war medals pinned to their lapels their bravery on display.
A lone bugler played the last post to honour the war dead
And an old man who was standing near i saw him bow his head
And tears were trickling down his face his thoughts were far away
Some noble men who were his friends in foreign Country lay.
We are gathered here this morning the ageing speaker said
To commemorate true heroes our great and brave war dead
They made the ultimate sacrifice and at a young age they did die
And we have them in part to thank for the freedom we enjoy
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poem by Francis Duggan
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Lady Luck Has Been So Kind To Me
Some like to think that your past is gone forever
But your memories good or bad won't fade away
And green of Spring to the young eyes look greener
And our sense of wonderment grow less with every day.
And memories of a childhood close to Nature
Despite time's passage with me still remain
I hear the dunnock chirping on the hedgerow
And the skylark piping o'er the hill again.
I grew up west of Millstreet in Duhallow
And Summer days the happiest days of all
Free of the classroom and it's many restrictions
Such happy memories one tend to recall.
I often roamed by Nature's streams and rivers
And I grew to love the dipper's scratchy song
And I only feel now I might be a stranger
In Claraghatlea North where I once belong.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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There Is More To Life Than Hard Work
I can't say my life's been a great life that I've been there and I've done that
But I worked in pipe laying crew for Michael Kelleher in Buninyong near Ballarat
And I worked in the late eighties for a firm called C.D.L.
Jack hammering in the heat of Summer when the days were hot as hell.
101 Collins Street Melbourne I remember that address
Not that I enjoyed the work there I remember none the less
Up each morning at five thirty then to work on tram I'd go
And left that building site each evening covered in dust head to toe.
Another four years as tree clearer up by powerlines clearing trees
Operating a cherry picker for such you don't need degrees
For a Travel tower company a growing concern managed by a greedy lot
They still owe me two weeks wages something I have not forgot.
Up working mornings at five thirty between work and travel a twelve hour day
Whilst my so called bosses made their millions I took home bare living pay
Now I take it nice and easy and I'm well off now as I was then
If your bosses make their millions for you there can't be a win
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poem by Francis Duggan
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The Ballad Of Rose O Shea
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.
Her blind and bedridden mother of chronic cancer died
And she sold the little white washed cot in Rosheen country side
And she left the green vale of Rosheen and Rosheen bogland brown
And sailed across the Irish sea for to live in London Town.
She settled in to City life this sweet Irish colleen
And she grew used to London traffic and the bustling city scene
She worked and saved some money and she earned her livelihood
As a bar maid in a bar room in London's Cricklewood.
It was here she met the man she loved the man she was to wed
An English son of an Irishman a red haired chap named Fred
And on a blustery morn in March a rainy saturday
Miss Rose Reen from Rosheen became Mrs Rose O Shea.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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Punch Up At 'Dart Man's Aim
Fifteen stone and just five foot eight
And yet he doesn't seem overweight
Deep, deep chest and shoulders wide
The strongest in this countryside.
He's the mighty Dan the frog
From the house beside the bog
Swarthy looking with raven hair
A happy man without a care.
He's no plans to take a wife
As he prefers the single life
And he's still a young man anyway
Just twenty five on his last birthday
Froggy is his dad's nickname
And that's from where the name frog came
But his nickname of frog he doesn't appreciate
In fact the word called frog he's grown to hate.
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poem by Francis Duggan
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