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Old

The Merri Forever

Posted Saturday 19th June 2010 at 00:53 by Francis Duggan
Home to the aussie magpie and the pale eyed crow
The green countryside where the old Merri flow
Slowly on to Warrnambool to Lady Bay
Long before it was named the Merri an old waterway
Four to five miles from the City of Warrnambool
The water hens cry in a dark river pool
On warm Summer evenings centuries ago in the shade of the trees
The Indigenous people danced their corroborees
For the river now known as the Merri they had their own name...
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Old

Go Sing Me A Song

Posted Saturday 19th June 2010 at 00:49 by Francis Duggan
Go sing me a song of the birds and the bees
Whose songs and buzzings are carrying in the freshening breeze
On a sunny Spring morning of twenty degrees
When pink blossoms are blooming on the fruit bearing trees.

Go sing me a song of the silver tongued rill
That babbles to the river from the field by the hill
That flows to saltwater towards the coast far away
In a voice never silent by night or by day.

Go sing me a song of Nature's...
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Old

The Flute Of The Aussie Magpie

Posted Saturday 19th June 2010 at 00:41 by Francis Duggan
Their flute like notes one so often does hear
The aussie magpies sing every day of the year
In the last month of Winter and the first month of Spring
In their breeding Season at night they do sing
At the fringe of his borders on a moonlit tree
The male magpie sings to proclaim territory
In his breeding Season he sings night and day
A warning to males of his kind for to keep away
From the stick nest high on the tree where his magpie wife...
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Old

On Hearing Magpie Larks

Posted Saturday 19th June 2010 at 00:37 by Francis Duggan
In the gathering gloam of a cool Autumn day
In the park from where I am a stone throw away
The dainty pied magpie larks call out pee wee
Voices familiar to many and familiar to me
Their familiar pee wee song one often does hear
Birds I hear and see often every day of the year
Their cup shaped mud nest a work of art to see
Often wedged in a fork of low branch of a tree
I have once seen their eggs pale with small spots of brown
Close to...
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Old

In The Old Fields Of Claraghatlea

Posted Wednesday 16th June 2010 at 01:49 by Francis Duggan
In the old fields of Claraghatlea from here far away
The nesting birds sing at the dawn of the day
And the swallows quite close to the rank rushes fly
As the rain drizzles down from the overcast sky
In only two sleeps from the birth of the May
The hawthorns are cloaked in their blooms white to gray
And the dipper does sing in the silver tongued rill
That babbles downland from the field by the hill
O'er the bracken clad slopes of Clara the brown...
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