Doongalla
From recent rains the woodland path was greasy up along the wooded hill
And the freshening winds of mid afternoon blew with a wintery chill
And in Doongalla east of Melbourne the white cockies did call
In that quiet old mountain woodland where the stringybarks stand tall.
When I last was in Doongalla six or seven years ago
Across the wooded hillside the wintery winds did blow
And the currawongs were calling as through the woodland they did fly
And from memory I remember that too was in July.
The laugh like calls of the kookaburra in Doongalla's woodland ring
And around his invisible borders the grey shrike thrush whistle and sing
And the pleasant fluting of the beautiful crimson rosellas sweet music to the ear
In the woodlands east of Melbourne them one can see and hear
The chilly winds of the high country blow across the wintery sky
And the yellow robin is chirping on the sixth day of July
And the majestic stringybark gums touch the low lying clouds 'twould seem
In Doongalla by the Basin where Mother Nature reign supreme.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Related quotes
When The Gray Fog Covers The Great Gums
When the gray fog covers the great gums and the pied currawongs they do call
You know heavy rain is approaching to Kalorama in late Fall
Across the high woodlands of Yarra Ranges the cool winds of early May blow
The mountain ash have seen many Seasons and with each Season taller they grow
The people who live near the high woods feel proud of their place of tall trees
The laughter of the kookaburras the mountain ash soughing in the breeze
When the gray fog covers the great gums you know that the Winter is near
The mountain air is a bit chilly in the Yarra Ranges in the Fall of the year,
The white cockatoos they are squawking their grating calls not a pleasant sound
Though quite pretty birds for to look at in the high woods their numbers abound
The king parrots and crimson rosellas quite beautiful birds to behold
In tree cavities they are born and 'tis said they live to be old
And the pied currawongs the big dark birds in the fog hidden woodland do call
And the rain clouds beginning to drizzle in Kalorama in the late Fall.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Beauty Is All Around Me
A walk in the garden of Nature and for it such a beautiful day
And the white backed magpie is fluting on a high branch of an old mountain gray
The scrub wrens in the undergrowth chirping their nest must be somewhere nearby
On this warm morning in September with the sun shining in the clear sky.
A warm day in the wooded hills in September with the slightest hint of a breeze
The crimson rosellas are chirping amongst the gum and wattle trees
And kookaburras at their border calling their voices one cannot mistake
One of the first heard in the woodland they even call before daybreak.
The Asian myna not the finest songster is proclaiming his territory
And the red wattlebirds utter their hoarse calls their names from their fleshy jewellery
And the butcherbird pipes in the gully he has his borders to defend
At nesting time he becomes aggressive and his own kind not even his friend.
A warm sunny day in September in a place that to Nature belong
The wooded hill scent of flowers and blossoms and resound to the lilt of bird song
The golden billed blackbird is piping amongst the leafy greenery
And I have good cause to be happy for beauty is all around me.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Belgrave Town
Oh sing me the ballad of old Belgrave Town
The roads that lead to it they wind up and down
By huge mountain ash that dwarf all other trees
The giants on the high ground that sough in the breeze.
Belgrave east of Melbourne of Puffing Billy fame
The old Puffing steam engine who lives up to his name
From Belgrave to Gembrook and back at least twice a day
With his load of passengers he puffs all the way.
I lived in old Belgrave for a number of years
Knew happy and sad times there laughter and tears
The laughter of the kookaburra sounded so shrill
At dawn on a gum tree up by Terrys Hill.
In Belgrave and the Dandenong Ranges I still have friends there
Their great love of Nature a bond with them I share
The gateway to Sherbrooke the high wooded Countryside
The Dandenong Ranges National Park it is known Worldwide.
The squawk of the white cockies and the familiar song
Of those birds of the high woods the pied currawong
And the crimson rosellas sing as they fly up and down
Through the high wood that overlooks old Belgrave Town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Wintery Day
The sun hidden in dark gray clouds Winter wears her shroud of gloom
But on the camellias and the magnolias the pink and white flowers bloom
And though the wind with a damp cold chill is blowing from north to south
Even in the depths of Winter Nature's beauty is about
The soft chirpings of the crimson rosellas so pleasant for to hear
Their notes do not seem to vary at any time of year
And the flute like notes of the magpie in the wooded hillside ring
In this their breeding Season at night his kind does sing
The harsh calls of the white sulphur crested cockatoos one never could mistake
One does often hear them in the wood at nightfall and daybreak
And the bubbling song of the grey butcherbird melodious and clear
Brings to the gloomy Winter's day the joy of Nature's cheer
The rain it falls in drizzles and the breeze has a cool chill
And the dampness of the Winter hangs around the wooded hill.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Paradise Lost for M 'lady Tara
This used to be a woodland place
when I was young long years ago
but now there’s very little trace
no trees at all. You’d never know
this used to be a woodland place.
New bungalows in row on row
their window panes all screened by lace.
Replace the trees which were laid low.
This used to be a woodland place
where any upset child could go
if they were troubled, in disgrace.
An ideal spot for lying low.
This used to be a woodland place
but that was many years ago
How sad that passing years erase
the secret havens children know.
30-Mar-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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An August Morning At Upper Gully
The smoke from the chimneys curled down in the sky
And it's colder and wetter than 'twas in July
And fog o'er the forest a blanket of gray
And darkening rain clouds more showers on the way.
The currawongs calling the dark birds of rain
And into the station roars the city bound train
And cars on the highway racing to and fro
And down the high woodlands the chilly winds blow.
At 7 a.m. and the temperatures low
And it's cold in upper Gully cold enough to snow
Yet on this bleak morning great beauty i see
Bright yellow flowers blooming on the wattle tree.
Their loud cackling laughter one could not mistake
And they call through the morning just after daybreak
On the higher branches of old mountain gray
The kookaburras herald a cold Winter's day.
Three weeks left in August and Spring is so near
On this perhaps the coldest day of the year
And dark rain clouds gather in bleak morning sky
And it's colder and wetter than 'twas in July.
poem by Francis Duggan
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It Is A Warm Day For September
It is a warm day for September around the 25 degrees
The nesting birds chirping and singing with only a very faint breeze
The Goddess of Spring in her glory the pittosporums in their grey flowers
The paddocks looking lush and greener as a result of the early Spring showers
On a blackwood tree the grey shrike thrush is whistling his voice so melodious and clear
And wildflowers bloom in woods and in paddocks Spring is such a nice time of year
A very warm day for September the sun shining in the clear sky
In the wooded park by the mountain the rosellas chirp as they fly
Such beautiful parrots to look at of mottled brown and bright crimson and blue
Better known as crimson rosellas to their given names they are true
The white backed magpies and blackbirds are piping it is such a beautiful day
And the first butterflies of the Season with brown spots on their wings white to gray
Are flying in the sunlit parkland around the blossoming trees
On this warm day for September of a high of 25 degrees.
poem by Francis Duggan
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July The First
The grey roos sheltering beneath the pine trees it is a wet and a wintery Winter's day
Yet in the rain the magpie he is piping on a high branch of a tall mountain gray
And yet the weather is not cold or chilly it does not seem a bad start to July
The Winter sun by the rain is hidden and overcast looking the morning sky
The Southern Winter I feel is far more pleasant than the Southern Summer at least the weather never gets too cold
That I do find mild Winter days a bit chilly has to be proof I must be getting old
On the Winter flowering trees the red wattlebirds are calling they have a certain hoarseness in their cry
And the pied currawongs the dark crow sized birds their karrawang notes are uttering as through the park from tree to tree they fly,
The white cockatoos in the drizzling rain are squawking from other birds them one cannot mistake
They are at their noisiest in the gloam of evening and in the early morning at daybreak
Three species of white cockatoo the sulphur crested and long billed and short billed corella by voice and appearance from each other not hard to identify
They live in large flocks and to each other nearby,
The rain drizzling down from a sky that's gloomy gray
But for July the first it is mild enough for a Winter's day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Bellbirds Are Singing
In the high woods of South Belgrave from here far away
The bellbirds are singing in Birdsland today
Like many tiny bells their pleasant ringing sound
Echo in the woodland on the higher ground.
The bellbirds or bell miners sparrow sized and green
Are easier to hear than they are to be seen
But their constant calls of their whereabouts tell
Though with their surroundings they seem to blend well.
The songs of the bellbirds so bell like and clear
In the high wood at Birdsland so pleasant to hear
Yet some who know of Nature have been known to say
That bellbirds they live where there is tree decay.
The early days of August a month from the Spring
And the songs of the bellbirds through the gum woodland ring
In warm sunny weather and in weather cold, wet, windy and severe
The bellbirds they sing the twelve months of the year.
In the high wood at Birdsland from here far away
The bellbirds are singing on this August day
The magpies are fluting in the cool of daybreak
And the songs of the bellbirds one cannot mistake.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Lines For A Taoist Adept
My friend lives high on East Mountain.
His nature is to love the hills and gorges.
In green spring he sleeps in empty woodland,
Still there when the noon sun brightens.
Pine-tree winds to dust his hair.
Rock-filled streams to cleanse his senses.
Free of all sound and stress,
Resting on a wedge of cloud and mist.
Young Mans Fancy
(written by m.gibb/kipner)
In the spring , a young mans fancy likely turns
To what hes been thinkin of
Hes thinkin of love
In the spring , a young mans hearts begins to sing
Thinkin of wedding rings
Hes thinkin of love
The chilly wintery winds, they blow,
In his heart ,hes warm
And true romance begins to grow
A love is born
In the spring , a young mans fancy
Likely turns to what hes been thinkin of
Hes thinkin of love
The chilly wintery winds they blow
In his heart , hes warm
And true romance begins to grow
A love is born
In the spring , a young mans fancy
Likely turns to whats hes been thinkin of
Hes thinkin of love
Hes thinkin of love
Hes thinkin of love
Ooh ........
song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Eavesdropping
THOUGH the winds but stir on their hoary thrones
Of hemlock and pungent pine,
All the whispering woodland tones
Gossip of things divine, —
Why God is gray in the granite rock,
And green in the lichen flake,
And swift in the darting swallow-flock,
And slow in the lapping lake;
Why God is sweet in the hermit-thrush,
And hoarse in the frog; and why
His touch on the bee is golden plush,
And gauze on the stinging fly;
Why God is life in the mushroom there,
And death in the toadstool here;
Mirth in the dancing maidenhair;
In its hidden adder, fear.
Oh, if this berry that stains my lip
Could teach me the woodland chat,
Science would bow to my scholarship,
And Theology doff the hat.
poem by Katharine Lee Bates
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October In Kalorama
Those giant mountain ash trees they seem to touch the sky
And the white sulphur crested cockies squawking as from tree to tree they fly
A pleasant Spring day in October of around 20 degrees
And warmth in the sunshine and in the gentle breeze.
Down in the wooded gully the whip bird's call resound
The loud whip like cracking echo of his voice can be heard for acres around
In Spring in Kalorama such a lovely time of year
The soft pipings of the crimson rosellas such a lovely sound to hear.
Perhaps the largest non fishing kingfisher that one could wish to see
The harsh calls of the kookaburra echo in their territory
It is their breeding Season and with their young to defend
To their own family members only kookaburras are a friend.
October in Kalorama and the wood birds are in song
And there can be no mistaking the voice of the pied currawong
A high of twenty five degrees the weather forecaster say
And in the Yarra Ranges it is a lovely day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Out There In The Wide Country
Out there in the wide country like a small speck in the sky
The small brown skylark is carolling as upwards he does fly
On a warm day in October with a beautiful Spring breeze
With temperatures near perfect around 23 degrees,
October in Victoria in the woodland all the day
The gray shrike thrush is whistling in his cloak of brown and gray
And the white backed magpie is fluting upon the gray gum tree
And the magpie lark is singing pee wee pee wee pee wee
And the kookaburras laughter is ringing loud and clear
Out there in the wide country them one so often hear,
Out there in the wide country the wildflowers are in bloom
And the woods and paddocks scenting of Nature's sweet perfume
And the temperature is perfect days such as this are rare
And the nesting birds are singing and Spring is in the air.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Within The April Woodland Grow
Within the April woodland grow
The bluebells of the dawning spring,
A sea of blue like waves that flow
Upon the breeze they softly sing.
As now the boughs begin to leaf
The sun does shine with gentle beam,
To light the flowers there beneath
And glisten on the restful stream.
That through the woodland winds its way
And follows me where'er I tread,
For love has come to me this day
As to this land I now am wed.
My heart is filled with gladdened cheer
To see the sight and hear the sound,
To me the greatest time of year
When they adorn the barren ground.
Each one to me a lover's kiss
Upon my lips that waited long,
For now I feel a sense of bliss
That lifts me like the throstle's song.
Within the April woodland grow
The bluebells of the dawning spring,
A sea of blue like waves that flow
Unto the shore they softly sing.
poem by Andrew Blakemore
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Wintery Nature
WINTERY NATURE
MR. Vavroo vahana patra
Slivery haze, as white clouds, sails over the Earth;
Poets enjoy the wintery beauty of nature with mirth.
The beauty of roses does not display itself gaudily;
Sunrays fall on them slowly and gradually.
The Sun eventually smiles in the eastern horizon;
Alluring, attracting, enticing is God’s creation!
Man marvels as starts Nature’s beautification;
God’s bliss streams on it with His benediction.
Nature, with her eternal beauty, fills with delight;
Poets’, devotees’ and chaste women’s minds aright.
As sunrays kiss the soft petals of roses so coy,
Poets are enchanted and their beauty heartily enjoy.
Deity of deities Lord Shiva blesses the devotees gracefully
As the serene shrine dazzles with the sunrays gaily.
Beautiful indeed looks now the wintery dawn
And devotees meditate in silence in the quiet morn.
As Mother’s temple too glitters with the sunbeam,
Devotees drink the nectar of love from Her Love’s stream.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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Back There In Millstreet County Cork
Back there in Millstreet County Cork the frosted fields are gray
And old Clara wears his hat of snow on this cold January day
And cattle in the farmyard shed are bellowing for hay
Back there in Millstreet County Cork far north and far away.
Through old fields west of Millstreet Town the Finnow bank high flow
Through Inchaleigh, Coomlogane and Claragahatlea by many a bare hedgerow
Robins, blackbirds and sparrows by back door eat crumbs of bread
Before the Spring for them some hard and hungry times ahead.
Back there through Millstreet County Cork harsh winds of January blow
The days and nights are wet and cold quite cold enough to snow
In Duhallow I was born and raised though far from there I may die
And that I still feel nostalgia for the place of that why should I lie.
Back there in Millstreet County Cork the wintery winds blow chill
Across the bleak unsheltered face of Clara's bracken hill
And on the high fields by the hill beneath a darkened sky
The hungry fox out hunting utters forth a wild shrill cry.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Chilly Winds Dont Blow
H. krasnow, b. lovelock
Going where the willows weep no more, darlin baby,
Going where the willows weep no more,
Chilly winds dont blow along my shore, oh baby,
Where the chilly winds, the chilly winds dont blow.
Going where my father waits for me, oh baby,
Going where my father waits for me,
Going there cause there Id rather be, oh baby,
Where the chilly winds, the chilly winds dont blow.
Yes there will be red roses round my door, darlin baby,
There will be red roses round my door,
Going where theyll welcome me for sure, oh baby
Where the chilly wind, the chilly wind dont blow.
Chilly winds, chilly winds, the chilly winds dont blow.
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Becalmed
1
Would that the winds might only blow
As they blew in the golden long ago--!
Laden with odors of Orient isles
Where ever and ever the sunshine smiles,
And the bright sands blend with the shady trees,
And the lotus blooms in the midst of these.
2
Warm winds won from the midland vales
To where the tress of the Siren trails
O'er the flossy tip of the mountain phlox
And the bare limbs twined in the crested rocks,
High above as the seagulls flap
Their lopping wings at the thunder-clap.
3
Ah! That the winds might rise and blow
The great surge up from the port below,
Bloating the sad, lank, silken sails
Of the Argo out with the swift, sweet gales
That blew from Colchis when Jason had
His love's full will and his heart was glad--
When Medea's voice was soft and low.
Ah! That the winds might rise and blow!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Spring Time Is Coming
Beautiful Spring is coming,
Ah, yes, will soon be here,
For the clear bright sun is shining
All human hearts to cheer.
One the brightest gems of nature
Is the orb that o'er us shines,
And o'er the wide creation,
It'll shine to the end of time.
The birds will soon be singing
On shrub and bough of trees,
Their notes will soon be ringing
Out, forth so merrily.
They love the merry spring time,
Those little birds we love,
They love the pleasant sunshine
That comes down from above.
We can hear them sweetly singing
From early morn, till night.
They make music in the woodland
Those little birds; so bright,
We should dearly love them,
Those little harmless things,
And when we hear their music,
We know that it is spring.
Ah; it's pleasant in the springtime,
All nature seems so gay.
Bright flowers in the sunshine,
Sweet fragrance can display.
The hills, and dales, and meadows,
So beautifully covered o'er;
With natures richest verdure,
The green grass, as of yore.
The winter will soon be over,
With its cold and chilly winds.
It is sad and dreary ever,
Yet its dying, free from sin.
Now the springtime is coming,
Ah, yes, will soon be here.
We will welcome in its coming
In this glad new year.
poem by Julia A Moore
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