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4397.
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In The Only Pub In Penshurst
In the only pub in Penshurst saturday is the big night
Some of the locals there for a meal and drinks of their worries make light
And some even have their children there in a child friendly place
And everyone seems happy a smile on every face.
In the only pub in Penshurst I was made feel welcome there
It did not seem to bother them that I was from elsewhere
To me they were so welcoming as if I were a long lost friend
And I felt like a Local there before the night did end.
In the only pub in Penshurst they sell the best of beer
And talk of cricket and football one is obliged to hear
The Aussies playing cricket in England and football finals time drawing near
And Spring around the corner it is that time of year.
In the only pub in Penhurst though there I was not known
The locals made me feel welcome as if I were one of their own
I had gained at least twenty new friends by last drinks at closing time
And to these lovely people I dedicate this rhyme.
Francis Duggan
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4398.
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In The Prime Of September
The paddocks looking yellow where the capeweed does bloom
And bright golden flowers on the gorse and the broom
And the flute of the shrike thrush is pleasant to hear
In the prime of September in the Spring of the year
At this time of year the musical magpies they sing day and night
How pleasant to hear them piping in the moonlight
And blackbird by his voice you cannot get wrong
He welcomes the dawn of the day with a song
Frisky lambs in the paddocks are frolicking about
When the Goddess of Spring is in the Land of the south
The laughter of the kookaburra the call of the weerloo
The big dark brown bird better known as yellow tail black cockatoo
Fruit bearing trees in blossom and nesting birds sing
In the prime of September in the southern Spring.
Francis Duggan
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4399.
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In The Refugee Camps
In the refugee camps of the World are millions of poor refugees
They are the forgotten survivors of droughts, wars, famines and disease
It would seem that their lives hardly matter they are like the pawns of a chess game
Yet those responsible for their predicament for their plight will not take any blame
'Tis sad to think millions are hungry and life for them tougher than tough
Whilst others have millions in money and to live have far more than enough
The gap between the haves and have nots keeps widening and for one to rise many must fall
For the poor who keep on getting poorer no such a thing as a fair go for all
In the refugee camps of the World and in the dark lanes off of poverty street
No comfortable rooms for to sleep in and never enough food to eat
The offspring of very poor parents and poor till the moment they die
Whoever said all people are equal are those who believe in a lie
In the refugee camps of the World and on the bleak streets of despair
Are the people the World has forgotten whoever said that life is fair?
Francis Duggan
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4400.
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In The Rushy Fields Of Millstreet
The skylark o'er the rushy field carolled as he did fly
And singing whilst ascending just a small speck in the sky
Till in the gray foamy looking cumulus he seemed to disappear
The little bird had vanished though his music I did hear.
The moorhen in the river where the water reeds grew tall
She called to her dark offsprings who grew silent at her call
As if they knew her call meant there's an enemy nearby
Their secret of survival to be secretive and shy.
At the secrecy of Nature my wonder it did grow
Still Nature's well kept secrets so few if any know
And things have not changed that much since all of those years ago
In the rushy fields of Millstreet where the Finnow waters flow.
In the rushy fields of Millstreet there is a young boy today
And he hears the skylark singing where the Finnow winds it's way
Slowly on towards the Blackwater on it's journey to the sea
And his eyes grow wide with wonder at the things he hear and see.
And in Nature's lush green garden beauty every where around
And he hears the baby pipits though their nest he has not found
And he's got to know the dipper by his brief and scratchy song
Where the Finnow on it's journey it goes babbling along.
The boy so full of wonder he may yet live far away
From the places he loved dearly but his memories with him stay
Of the wildborn and shy creatures that he tried to get to know
In the rushy fields of Millstreet where the Finnow waters flow.
Francis Duggan
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