I'm always proud of what I am
An Irish and a Millstreet man
I love Millstreet my native earth
And Cork the county of my birth.
I love to hear the skylark trill
Above the slopes of Clara hill
And feel contented gazing down
On green fields bordering Millstreet Town.
I love the sound of gurgling stream
The voices of birds in leafy screen
The bleat of innocent lambkin
The chirp of bashful waterhen.
I love to sit on Summer day
By the rill that flows through Claraghatlea
And stretch my legs and feel at ease
And listen to birds sing on the trees.
I've never yearned for wealth or fame
That mine should be an honoured name
I'm satisfied with what I am
An ordinary Irishman.
I Love A Quiet Place
I love a quiet place of natural beauty full of wild flowers and blossoming shrubs and trees
Surrounded by the pleasant sounds of Nature The dronings of the nectar gathering bees
A balmy day in late Spring the sun is shining and leaves are rustling in the freshening breeze
And Nature's garden never looking greener and birds are carolling in their territories.
More than half of a mile off of the nearest roadway in a place that's free of man created noise
Though such places are now becoming rarer as sadly I have come to realize
Yet there are places still where wild life is abundant and of such places I have known a few
My favourite spot a small wood that skirts a paddock of gum and wattles where a creek flows through.
The shrike thrush there I often hear him singing I see him in his cloak of brown and gray
And wallabies who spend their day in cover as I walk by through the scrub bound away
It's nice to be alone with Mother Nature in place where work of man cannot be seen
Where in Spring Nature wears her favourite colours and she looks stunning in her cloak of green.
I love a quiet place where birds are singing where Nature with man doesn't have to compete
Where one doesn't hear the traffic of the roadway and far from the busy bustle of the street
The hum of wild honey bees out gathering nectar at a time of year when young birds take to wing
At any time of year I love such places though Nature at her loveliest in the Spring.
I Love A Walk In A Quiet Place
I love a walk in a quiet place away from man made noise
Away from smoky factories that foul and smog the skies
In the lush paddock by the wood where the voice of Nature ring
And where even on the coolest days the wild birds chirp and sing.
I love a walk in a quiet place where on the blackwood tree
The silver billed white backed magpie pipes his distinct melody
And signs of digging tell where rabbits are where the ground is bare and brown
In a quiet place undisturbed by man a few miles out of town.
I love a walk in a quiet wood where wild born creatures abound
Where wombat sleep in his deep dark den in safety underground
And where roos rest in the undergrowth for hours on end each day
And as I pass near from their hiding place I hear them bound away.
I love to walk on gravel path by lake and watch the dabchick
dive for prey
And a family group of wood ducks swim in their cloaks of brown and gray
And the cormorant on a tree stump hang his wings out to dry
When his feathers are wet from fishing it's been said he cannot fly.
I love to walk on a quiet beach at a time when the tide is low
When the orange billed sooty oystercatcher as dark as any crow
Turn over shells left on the shore by the latest high tide
The lives protected by the shells from their probing bills can't hide.
I love a walk in a quiet place the home of the wild and free
Where magpie with the silver bill pipes on the blackwood tree
Away from smoky factories where man created noise abound
In a place where Nature's presence is everywhere around.
I Love Penning Stuff
One might say I've written a whole heap of stuff
Of the sort literary critics see as slipshod and rough
But with a penning addiction I keep penning on
And today I will pen more since yesterday's gone.
I used to daydream that I might be a poet
Or a person worthy of some literary note
But few make a fortune in the Wordsmith trade
And like 'tis said poets are born not made.
Far north in Duhallow I daydreamed of renown
In Spring in the old fields west of Millstreet Town
Wildflowers were in bloom and the landscape looked green
And the robin sang on the hedge by the bohreen.
The beauty of Nature for all to enjoy
And I have loved Nature since I was a boy
The blackbird he piped with his bright yellow bill
And the dipper he sang in the stream by the hill.
Jingles to Mother Nature I often did write
And to myself only them I did recite
But even back then I already knew
That writers are born and poets are few.
Some tell me I ought to give writing away
But to their advice heed I never do pay
I love penning stuff of that why should I lie
And as a poetaster I live and as a poetaster I'll die.