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On The Day That Pudsy Died

A cold fog from the mountain stole across the countryside
And cloaked the fields in greyness on the day that Pudsy died
She had survived many life's battles and she did not die easily
Like her I too must go the way of time whenever that will be.

Our dark brown cattle dog Pudsy to us devoted to the end
All of our family grieved for her she was a family friend
We buried her by our old home beside the cypress tree
And despite the passing of the years she lives in my memory.

More of a hunting than a cattle dog for fox and badger she went to ground
And she was the best fighting dog for miles and miles around
When challenged by another dog Pudsy never backed away
Though she never did start a fight that much of her one can say.

I watched her fighting many times and never see her beat
she was the champion fighting dog on our side of Millstreet
As a watchdog or a guard dog on her one could not depend
For Pudsy did love people she was everybody's friend.

A hairy rugged outdoor dog she did not mind it wet and cold
She even slept out in the rain though time had left her old
As an outdoor dog she lived and died and of her I can say
That she enjoyed the outdoor sort of life in her own happy way.

A cold fog stole down from the hill and cloaked the fields in gray
On the day our dark brown cattle dog old Pudsy passed away
Until the moment that she died as our friend she did remain
And often times in my memory I hunt with her again.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pudsy

I still recall our old cattle dog Pudsy
We got her from John Pat Riordan as an eight week old
A black and tan she was as tough as leather
She'd sleep out in the frost and not be cold.

A grand daughter of Jack our old brown war dog
And Pudsy too was one who loved a fight
She never lost a scrap she was too hairy
No other dog into her flesh could bite.

As a cattle dog than Pudsy there was better
Off of the cow's tail she always used to swing
And due to her some cows had their tails bloodied
And a bleeding tail is not a pleasant thing.

She was more of a fighting dog and hunter
And she often took a badger on alone
She had a heart to match her fighting courage
And as a fighting dog she became known.

Though hit by a car she lived to be an old dog
And despite her poor balance she got around
And she even was in dog fights in her old age
And i never see her once pinned to the ground.

I still recall our old cattle dog Pudsy
Though she died more than thirty years ago
She was as tough as leather and a fighter
And she even slept out in the frost and snow.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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In Old Claraghatlea When I Was A Young Boy

In old Claraghatlea when I was a young boy
Walks in the old fields I used to enjoy
And Summer evenings out hunting in Pomeroy's bog
With Pudsy our dark brown hairy cattle dog
The boy of the fifties is now looking gray
One might say he has known a far better day
But memories of the past in the memory remain
And in memory the past we re-visit again
Old Pudsy long gone she is in time's decay
In Mother earth's bosom forever she lay
And time ticks away and nothing seems to last
And in memory we only can go to the past
And in old Claraghatlea far north and far away
A boy with his dog is out hunting today.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Just Old Memories

On Clara's slopes in mid July i ate the whortleberry
And the splendid views i do recall towards the hills of East Kerry
The whortleberry small blue fruits that ripened on the heather
From late June until late July in changeable Summer weather.

With Pudsy our brown cattle dog where i went she did follow
The canine friend of my young years back there in old Duhallow
The family pets though decades dead we always do remember
Memories of them live on in us to our life's last December.

Just memories of what used to be though the past has gone forever
Though nostalgic links for many seem impossible to sever
In flights of fancy in the high wood at Claramore i hear the song birds singing
And the carolling lark above the hill up to the clouds is winging.

To climb Clara hill in June and July there was a special reason
The whortleberries ripe to eat their's is not a long Season
Just memories of what used to be when i was a young fellow
A wild one with the flush of youth but the years have left me mellow.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Donal Hickey

We were in the same classroom in Millstreet Primary school
And Donal was a clever boy he never once sat on the dunce's stool
He still lives in the old home in Inchaleigh though I live far away
From Clara hill near Millstreet Town and the fields of Claraghatlea.

He has worked in the Cork Marts for many years three decades maybe more
And he is well into his fifties now and of years near the three score
A hunting man he knows the countryside for miles around
And he could tell you where the earth of fox or badger would be found.

I last met Donal Hickey almost two decades ago
On a November sunday cold and gray the stream bank high did flow
And Clara with the bracken face he wore a cloak of fog
Out hunting with his terriers in Jack the Master's bog.

One who lives close to Nature and of Nature much he know
On sunday he's out hunting rain, hail, sunshine or snow
He keep the best fox terriers the best for miles around
Brave and fearless little hunters for fox they go to ground.

One of the nicest people that one could wish to meet
He still lives in the old homeplace at Inchaleigh in Millstreet
In that green and fertile countryside where the Finnow waters flow
And we were in the same classroom more than forty years ago.

poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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