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7873.
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'Tis True That Poets Are Quite A Rare Breed
'Tis true that poets are quite a rare breed and few that pen verse are worthy of note
Though many say they do write poetry and refer to themselves as poet
You won't find many like Robert Burns or James Clarence Mangan or John Clare
They may have lived and died poorer than many do but their type of writers are rare
As for me I'm a bit of a rhymer and for years I have been a rhyme buff
One not worthy of the title of poet though I've written a whole heap of stuff
Some self proclaimed poets into self praise their own praises they love to sing
Their egos are over inflated the ego is such a strange thing
In this the age of self promotion the word poet is often abused
In referring to self by those who crave fame and attention a word that is too often used
Suppose there is nothing wrong with self promotion though some with it get carried away
Though one would not find many people who would agree with what I do say
About poets and about writing poetry a weed to one to another is a rose
Our different views on things makes us seem interesting on that one would have to suppose.
Francis Duggan
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7874.
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'Tis Up To You People Of Millstreet
A broadband mast to be placed on Clara's summit with cable suspended on poles all of the way to the top
It may be too late for this E S B and PermaNet venture for to be brought to a full stop
At least they should be forced for to bury the cable than sacrifice such a beautiful view
You Millstreet people who love Clara to save it's beauty is up to you.
Long before there was a Duhallow and long before there was Millstreet Town
Upon the old beautiful country the old hill looked lovingly down
Without any ugly poles on it for progress the price big to pay
On putting poles on Clara mountain the E S B should not have their way.
Long before the mountain was named Clara it was the hill without a name
That humans should spoil it's wild beauty does seem such a terrible shame
With ugly poles dotting it's landscape the old hill will not look the same
Tis now up to the Millstreet Community on this one they should not blow tame.
Tis up to you people of Millstreet it is of you we want to feel proud
If you can save Clara's wild beauty your praises we will sing so loud
The fight for to save Clara's beauty is only about to begin
You get in there and you start fighting for the fight it is your's for to win.
Such sad news to read about Clara it seems such an awful disgrace
That bureaucracy at it's ugliest is about to pockmark that beautiful face
Tis up to the people of Millstreet for to save the beauty of their hill
And they can be successful on this one if for the fight they have the will.
Francis Duggan
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7875.
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To A Cow In Mourning
It aches my heart to hear you mourn poor cow
And i would help you if i could somehow
But only God can resurrect your son
Who has fallen victim of the butcher's gun.
You've mourned since afternoon of saturday
When men from you took fatted calf away
And since saturday all but five days ago
You've lived beneath a cloud of grief and woe.
Your mournful bellows tell of painful ache
In heart that must be very near to break
And the forlorn face and the sad eyed look that tell
Of creature who has lived four days of hell.
Today a wealthy Townman sit and eat
And masticate your offspring's tender meat
And say to wife 'darling the meat taste nice'
It's prime beef like this make meat seem worth it's price.
And your farmer owner he doesn't even care
Of the grief that pains you he seem unaware
He doesn't feel moved by bovine moans or tears
And your mournful bellows fall on heedles ears.
But the only cure for grief and dismal pine
Is the proven and the age old healer time
And time poor cow will help make you forget
That son you loved whom butcher shot to death.
Francis Duggan
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7876.
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To A Butterfly
You while away the pleasant sun shine hours
In green, green meads adorned with wildering flowers
And shelter from the brief, brief summer showers
Beneath the green leaves in the leafy bowers.
With tiny dark spots on your bright red wings
Like creature from the land of king of kings
You flit round wildering hedgerows all day long
Where wildborn bird sing merry wildborn song.
Your brief, brief life is one of peace and joy
And autumn comes too soon and you must die
But you've got hairy caterpillar your son
To take your place when your life course is run
Francis Duggan
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