The Black Feathered Songster
The black feathered songster with the golden bill
He sings on the tree by the babbling rill
The song of the blackbird melodious and clear
A familiar voice in the Spring of the year
In his song males of his own kind the message of warning does hear
To my borders you better not venture near
At this time of year his own kind not a friend
In his song a warning that his patch he'll defend
Concealed in her nest from predator eye
His partner sits on her eggs in a bush nearby
When she and her mate back to Nature have gone
Their genes in their young are destined to live on
Birdsong to us may seem a beautiful thing
But 'tis not out of joy that the songbird does sing.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
On A Moonlit Night In July
A full moon does silently creep it's way across the starlit sky
And the flute of the magpie I hear on this cool Winter night in July
He does not sing for the love of song he sings to defend territory
Whilst most others birds are asleep he pipes high on a wattle tree
With a wife and a nest to defend in his nesting time of the year
He pipes a warning to males of his kind that to us sounds melodious and clear,
The spur wing plovers in the park above their nesting grounds do fly
They scream at the dog, fox or cat who to their ground nest is prowling nearby
In the calm of a Winter night of such beauty a Nature Poet would write
A poem that lovers of Nature poetry would read and to others feel glad to recite
On a gum tree a brush tail possum calls for a mate his hoarse voice one cannot mistake
He will be in the dark ceiling of a nearby house before the sun rise at daybreak
And the boobook owl calls out mopoke a night predator of human kind shy
The nocturnal creatures out and about on a moonlit night in July.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Good Friend To Me
The gold billed blackbird whistling upon the the garden tree
For the past few years a good neighbour to me
He whistles every day all through the Spring
And his song to it has a distinctive ring.
From the other all dark males of his race him I know
Since on his left wing a few flight feathers white as snow
He tells other males of his kind in his song
This patch of ground to me and mine belong.
Each time I hear the blackbird pipe and sing
My thoughts return to the far northern Spring
On Spring evenings in groves by Millstreet Town
The blackbirds pipe before the sun goes down.
The blackbird whistling on the wattle tree
He only sings to proclaim territory
His neighbour males the warning in his song hear
And his border they dare not venture near.
The blackbird in the garden a good friend to me
I know him by sight each time him I see
By the few white feathers on his left side wing
And his song it takes me to the Northern Spring.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tis Not Of Love Or Love Of Song
'Tis not of love or love of song the male bird ever sing
Or any sense of happiness for to celebrate the Spring
His song born of aggression with borders to defend
In his war cry to his own kind he is not one to pretend
His song at early morning carrying in the freshening wind
Is meant to be his defensive shield against males of his own kind
His neighbour male sings back to him his message too is clear
All through the Spring in their gift of song they play their game of fear
The poets who write of songbirds and of their joy of song
Of songbirds lives and songbirds ways have surely got it wrong
Their songs may seem a thing of joy but not meant to be that way
'Tis not of joy that they do sing at the dawning of the day
He warns his neighbours in his song this is my territory
And if my borders you do cross you have to deal with me.
poem by Francis Duggan
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In Matty Owens Bog
The pipe of the curlew I fancy I hear
In Matty Owens bog many miles north of here
In the calm of a June evening melodious and clear
In Summer a beautiful time of year
By the watery bog hole with her blotched eggs neath her breast
Cloaked by the rank rushes his quiet wife sits on her nest
The curlews of the future to life she will bring
The beauty of Nature is an amazing thing.
The pink breasted bullfinch so lovely to see
Perched on a high branch of a silver birch tree
One that one could stand and admire all day long
The beautiful bird with an ordinary song.
In the river pool the moorhen utters her shrill warning cry
To her young to alert them of danger nearby
Three tiny dark chicks with red faces mum's warning does heed
And swim into cover to hide in the reed.
Above Matty Owens bog in the still of the night
The male snipe with his tail in the Summer moonlight
He proclaims his territory in the night sky
And drums out a warning to other male snipe as he fly.
poem by Francis Duggan
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For July A Rare Sunny Day
For July a rare sunny day
The sun peep through the clouds of gray
And the nest building magpie does sing
Five weeks from the first day of Spring.
Tiny frogs sing in the watery drain
Swollen by recent heavy rain
And the song of the blackbird I hear
Familiar, melodious and clear.
Late Winter a nice time of year
One knows that the Spring it is near
The birds know it is time to breed
And the call of Nature they do heed.
Mild sunshine with a gentle breeze
And magpies piping on the gum trees
And the magpie larks calling pee wee
In the sunlit park by the sea.
The sun shining in the gray sky
Such a pleasant day for July
The birds sense the coming of Spring
Nature is such an amazing thing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Such Beautiful Weather
The wattlebirds calling on the flowering gum trees
On a beautiful day in mid Winter of around eighteen degrees
Such beautiful weather for the time of year
Six weeks to September and Spring is drawing near
A pair of magpies with nesting material for their nest nearby
Make a whirring sound with their wings as they fly
Their young will be fully fledsged by early Spring
The wonders of Nature is a marvellous thing
With black, gold and gray feathers one cannot get wrong
The beautiful bird with the ordinary song
The new holland honeyeater searching for insects and nectar their chirpings one can hear
On a beautiful day for July of the year
September and Spring it is not far away
And we ought to feel glad for this beautiful day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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It Is Spring Now In The Northlands
It is Spring now in the Northlands the Northlands far away
And the hawthorns are heavily laden in their white blooms of the May
And the hooded crow is cawing in his cloak of black and gray
And the white breasted dipper singing in the river all the day.
It is Spring now in the Northlands and cock robin all day long
On the trees around his borders sings his territorial song
And the stream from the foothills by the hedgerows babbling down
On it's journey to the river through the old fields by the town.
It is Spring now in the Northlands a delightful time of year
And the voice of the migrant cuckoo is a pleasant thing to hear
When one has the whims of fancy 'tis not hard to visualize
The songs of Nature's feathered minstrels at daybreak before sunrise.
It is Spring now in the Northlands and the fields are looking green
Where the wildering flowers of Nature in abundance can be seen
And primroses, snowdrops and bluebells bloom on ditch of the bohreen
When one talks of Nature's Seasons Spring is surely beauty queen.
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mr Songbird (from 12 Track Edition)
Won't you sing me a song or two,
Won't take you long to just sing to me please,
Won't you whistle a tune.
I got nothing to gain, I got nothing to lose,
But if you sing me a song,
You'll make me happy [?].
Sing Mr. Songbird,
Sing Mr. Songbird,
Sing Mr. Songbird,
You help to keep my troubles away.
Sing Mr. Songbird,
Sing Mr. Songbird,
Sing Mr. Songbird,
You help to keep my troubles away.
Mister, won't you sing me a song,
Won't you sing a little melody.
Won't you try to help me along,
Won't you sing a little song for me, oh yeah.
Sing me a song or two,
Won't take you long to just sing to me please,
Won't you whistle a tune.
Though I ain't got a beanie
'Cause I've nothing to dream,
So if you waiting for nothing,
Do something for me.
Sing Mr. Songbird,
Sing Mr. Songbird,
Sing Mr. Songbird,
You help to keep my troubles away.
Sing Mr. Songbird,
Sing Mr. Songbird,
Sing Mr. Songbird,
You help to keep my troubles away.
You help to keep my problems away.
You help to keep the devil away.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mr. Songbird
Won't you sing me a song or two,
Won't take you long to just sing to me please,
Won't you whistle a tune.
I got nothing to gain, i got nothing to lose,
But if you sing me a song,
You'll make me happy [?].
Sing mr. songbird,
Sing mr. songbird,
Sing mr. songbird,
You help to keep my troubles away.
Sing mr. songbird,
Sing mr. songbird,
Sing mr. songbird,
You help to keep my troubles away.
Mister, won't you sing me a song,
Won't you sing a little melody.
Won't you try to help me along,
Won't you sing a little song for me, oh yeah.
Sing me a song or two,
Won't take you long to just sing to me please,
Won't you whistle a tune.
Though i ain't got a beanie
'cause i've nothing to dream,
So if you waiting for nothing,
Do something for me.
Sing mr. songbird,
Sing mr. songbird,
Sing mr. songbird,
You help to keep my troubles away.
Sing mr. songbird,
Sing mr. songbird,
Sing mr. songbird,
You help to keep my troubles away.
You help to keep my problems away.
You help to keep the devil away.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'd Like To Know More About Nature
I'd like to know more about Nature for of Nature so little i know
Though we see the beauty she creates and the beautiful things she does grow
Her rill that is born by the mountain flows downland by many a hedgerow
And it swells into a mighty river and on towards the ocean does flow.
I'd like to know more about Nature for Nature is an amazing thing
The song bird who sings in your garden sings the same song his father did sing
This is just one wonder of Nature how a small bird remembers a song
And passes it on through his genes to his offsprings a secret that to Nature belong.
I'd like to know more about Nature for of Nature i know little at all
Though i just like billions of others can recognize some birds and animals by their call
Great human minds have studied Nature but they only do learn to realize
That there is far more to our Earth Mother far more to her than meets our eyes.
I'd like to know more about Nature though i look at her every day
She guards her secrets with secrecy and from us she hides them away
And those who say they know all of Nature are those who do broadcast a lie
And Nature she lives on forever and we like all of her life forms must die.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Wishing I Was A Songbird
I wish I could be a songbird
but not just to gracefully fly
for in the morning, emotions stirred
I would sing my song to the sky
A beautiful song it would be
A song beyond compare
It is then I would leave my tree
and take off into the air
Flying amongst the sun
with freedom as my song
when hearts of humans are won
as a songbird I cannot go wrong
poem by Glaedr the poet
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For To See One More Spring
How marvellous to live for to see one more Spring
To feel the sun's warmth and to hear the birds sing
The sweet scents of Nature of pollen and hay
That wafts in the breeze of a beautiful day.
In search of water surface insects young ducklings are out
With their mums in the Townpark lake quietly swimming about
And the pipe of the shrike thrush is so pleasant to hear
In Nature Spring is such a nice time of year.
Were I a poet of such beauty I would write
A poem others would happily read and recite
Of Spring in her glory when flowers are in bloom
And the gardens are scenting of Nature's perfume.
Into the last month of Spring and young birds learning how to fly
And butterflies dancing in the sunny sky
I hear the familiar voice of the pee wee
And wild birds are whistling on bush and on tree.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On Hearing And Seeing A Goldfinch
The last day of October a balmy day of Spring
And on highest branch of a blackwood tree a sunlit goldfinch sing
His twittering notes unmistakeable so pleasant for to hear
One of the smaller songsters of the Springtime of the year.
With red around beak and of grey, brown and fawn and gold
A sunlit goldfinch in song is quite lovely to behold
You do not need to see him you know him by his song
One whose voice is familiar and you never can get wrong.
In a cup shaped nest of rootlets lined with down, lichen and bits of hay
Four to seven bluish white eggs the female bird she lay
Her mate he does the singing whilst she hatches her eggs to life
One cannot say about her that she is not a good wife.
The last day of October 'tis so breezy and bright
And a goldfinch is singing in the warm sunlight
Butterflies flit around the flower beds and the dark brown honey bees
Are buzzing whilst gathering nectar from the blossoming bushes and trees.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On A Morning In Late September
Above the sunlit paddock just like a small speck in the sky
The little brown skylark is carolling as up to the high clouds he fly
On a beautiful morning in September approaching the prime of the Spring
On bushes and trees all around me the nesting birds whistle and sing.
Each species of bird distinctive by their voice Nature is a marvellous thing
The skylark to proclaim his borders is obliged to take to the wing
In a tussock of grass quite well hidden her eggs kept warm by the heat of her breast
Incubating the next generation his partner she sits in her nest.
A small mob of kangaroos hop through the paddock to the scrub dotted with trees nearby
Away from prying eyes they feel safer their privacy they too enjoy
They stay in cover till twilight and as night fall nears they venture out
And under the cover of darkness they feed and go on hop about.
On a morning in late September the lark o'er the paddock in song
Even by his voice he is distinctive a bird one can never get wrong
And kangaroos hopping to cover they are not often seen by day
Amongst the scrub surrounded by gums and wattles hidden from prying eyes in safety they lay.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Laws Of Nature
In the lonely wood of Clara orange breast robin pipes his song
A warning to all Clara robins 'that this here space to me belong'
And neighbour cock robin listen and the message is understood
Of old cocky himself master at the corner of the wood.
Every morning of the Spring time from branch of tall larch tree
He utter forth a warning in a song like melody
As if to say 'hey neighbour robin stay clear of my boundary'
For if you venture across my border blood will be spilt needlessly.
Even in the wilds of the wild kingdom all creatures are not wholly free
Some are bound by law of Nature to stay in one territory
And like us mortal humans they fall out and disagree
And they wage war on each other and for the loser it's die or flee.
In the lonely wood of Clara on this bright morning in May
Orange breast robin pipes his warning 'keep away oh keep away'
Keep away ye other robins from my wife and family
Dare ye venture across my border this acre belong to me.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Birdsong
The morning air suddenly comes alive,
With beautiful birdsong, in bursts of five.
Sometimes, there are bursts of seven or six,
To add a dash of variety, to the musical mix.
From other birds, there is no competition;
To sing the best, this bird is on a mission.
He sings his song loudly, and crystal clear;
Sat way up high in the tree, he feels no fear.
To his heart’s content, the little bird sings;
Joy, to nearby shoppers, his sweet song brings.
I hear the shrill trill of a nearby burglar alarm;
Compared to the bird’s trill, it holds no charm.
Hearing his call, really brightens up my day,
As I pass him by, and go steadily on my way.
Some people are too busy to notice his call;
Upon their deaf ears, his pretty voice falls.
In the natural world, there’s beauty to be found;
You need only to listen, and look all around.
If you just take your time; if you do not rush,
You will find beauty aplenty in the relative hush.
Listen to the birds singing, way up in the trees;
Their voices are carried upon the winter breeze.
By such sights and sounds, you will be thrilled;
With nature’s beauty, your senses will be filled.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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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.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Why Do You Sing?
A beautiful bird
Sits in the cage
And sings
Still it sings
Even after its imprisonment
And I cannot under stand why
Why do you sing your pretty song?
When you have no one but me to listen
Why do you sing your pretty song?
When your own kind is gone?
Taken from home
Domesticated and tamed
Why do you sing, beautiful bird?
poem by Autumn Winds
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My Memories Of Childhood Are Fading
My memories of childhood are fading as I grow older and more gray
Yet in my wild flights of fancy I get the sweet scent of hay
In the mown meadows of Summer in the far northern July
And upwards above the rank rushes the brown lark carols as he fly.
I'm not what you would call a poet I only pen doggerel
Yet I can relate to my memories and I too have stories to tell
Of my childhood close to Nature in the fields and groves by the Town
Where the deciduous green leaves of Summer in late Autumn faded to brown.
Where male bullfinch the quiet sort of a fellow in his cloak of pink, black and slate blue
A beautiful bird of rare beauty to his wife till death he is true
At dawn at the edge of his borders his quiet though familiar song sing
The orchardists they do not like them they eat their fruit tree buds in the Spring.
In my childhood I grew to love Nature and like every other country boy
To me the voice of the cuckoo in late Spring was always a thing of great joy
But I grew to manhood too quickly and time for me too did not wait
And each day I live sees me closer and closer to my use by date.
I fancy I still hear the dipper his voice is not distant 'twould seem
On a black river rock in the shallows in the heart of the babbling stream
His snow white breast to me familiar his wings and his back darkish brown
And as he pipes forth his scratchy notes his head always bobs up and down.
My memories of childhood are fading suppose nothing ever does last
And 'tis said we should live for tomorrow still we all remember the past
And still in my wild flights of fancy the robin sings on the hedgerow
And in the rank grass in the headland the shy pheasant out of sight crow.
poem by Francis Duggan
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