When People Ask Me Where I Come From
I am just a peasant fellow without pretension to renown
But in some ways I feel lucky I was raised near Millstreet Town
And if anybody ask me where are you from anyway?
I tell them I come from Millstreet from a place called Claraghatlea.
Claraghatlea that sounds a strange name and where the hecks might Millstreet be?
I tell them a Town in North Cork inland distant from the sea
In green and fertile Duhallow with high mountains all around
Where you can view the finest scenery when you climb the higher ground.
Of Millstreet you paint a good picture but how do it compare to here?
We only read of wet Ireland where the skies are seldom clear
Not much point in pretty scenery if the weather's seldom fine
Give me Queensland and warm weather, golden beaches and sunshine.
With them I don't try to argue each to their own point of view
And what they read of Irish weather in some ways is partly true
But I have often been to Queensland and thought the climate hot and dry
And even in cooler Victoria risk of skin cancer is high.
When people ask me where I come from my heritage I don't deny
I tell them I come from Millstreet twelve thousand miles north as plane fly
Winter months were wet and frosty and in Spring some heavy showers
But from May onwards so much beauty, fields and gardens full of flowers.
It is Spring now in Victoria and today is such a pleasant day
And the grey shrike thrush is whistling in the wood across the way
it is almost perfect weather a high of twenty degrees
And the nestling birds are chirping in their nests high on the trees.
Wish today could last forever but wishing cannot make it be
In the Summer temperatures soar to a high of forty three
And this a cool part of Australia further north it's hot all year
And to some parts rain is a stranger and the drought can hit severe.
When people ask me where I come from west of Millstreet Town I say
In green and fertile Duhallow in a place called Claraghatlea
This Claraghatlea sounds such a strange name and where the hecks might Millstreet be?
I tell them by Clara mountain inland distant from the sea.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Wet August Day In Millstreet
From Claramore the rill in flood flow brown
Through Claraghatlea a mile from Millstreet Town
And dark to gray rain clouds across the sky
Tell that more heavy showers of rain are nigh.
You know that bird to whom the voice belong
When you hear the dipper sing his scratchy song
He pipe his loudest when the flood is high
And the wet conditions he seem to enjoy.
The last thing that the farmer needs is rain
A hungry Winter for his stock again
In August only four or five days dry
And half of his hay crop rotted in July.
And yet in all of his years he has not seen
His fields in August quite so lush and green
And he can only hope for a good Fall
And that September will be drier after all.
O'er rushy fields by where the rivers meet
Perhaps a mile from the Town of Millstreet
The little lark of Humankind quite shy
Above the rain clouds carolling as he fly.
The Winter months the Duhallow farmer fear
The very wet Summer has cost him dear
And from Claramore the rill in flood flow brown
Through Claraghatlea a mile from Millstreet Town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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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A Wave From Jimmy Sullivan
A wave from Jimmy Sullivan in Millstreet far away
A nice and spontaneous gesture that did help to make my day
From Clara road one must presume in view of Clara hill
It brought back the old memories as if time had stood still.
When we played Soccer and Gaelic football some twenty years ago
Though our old legs ageing back then nowadays are far more slow
But Jimmy looking fit and well despite the march of time
He was a quick and elusive player when he was in his prime.
One of those lucky people who has a sense of place
In Millstreet Town and Parish his is a well known face
He never will leave Millstreet in Millstreet he will stay
And in his beloved Town of Millstreet he will grow old and gray.
From life i do feel hardened and i feel too old for tears
But that wave from Jimmy Sullivan it took me back the years
To when we were young and fitter and we chased the ball around
In the Inch field at Claraghatlea back then our football ground.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Warm August Day In Old Duhallow
A warm August day in old Duhallow far north of here and miles away
And swallows high o'er sunlit meadows scenting sweetly of mown hay
And songbirds silent on the hedgerows in Summer you seldom hear them sing
they always pipe their finest in the prime months of the Spring.
A warm day in August in the fields of Knocknagree
And old gray faced rook is cawing on high branch of elm tree
And the magpie he is chattering as into the grove he fly
From once seen and heard he's one that's not hard to identify.
A warm day by Clara mountain by the old Town of Millstreet
And the skylark is not singing o'er the bracken in the heat
In the warm days of late Summer he doesn't feel the urge to fly
High above the sunlit mountain for to carol in the sky.
A warm day in August and the drains of water dry
And the old man says often in August I've seen water flowing bank high
And the long range weather forecast is the weather will be fine
And that at least another fortnight of warm days and sunshine.
A warm August day in Duhallow and the farmer in short sleeves
And the temperatures quite pleasant around 25 degrees
Still it can't be very long now till the cool winds of change blow
And the Paps and Caherbarnagh will be in their hats of snow.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Remember The Time
I remember the time when the Gaelic Footballers of Millstreet
In the Cork County Senior Championship for the best were a hard team to beat
But time does bring change as some like to say so
And that is going back a few decades ago.
Nowadays with Duhallow's best junior footballers Millstreet cannot compete
The downturn for them one can say is complete
But in sport as in life few things stay the same
And Gaelic Football after all is only a game.
The glory days for Millstreet Gaelic Football may be gone
But in the Town in view of Clara life as usual goes on
Though Millstreet glory days in sport Millstreet people like to recall
There is far more to life than Gaelic Football.
Of the North Cork Gaelic Football Clubs Millstreet were to the fore
And against the County's best they often kicked a winning score
And though no Gaelic Senior Football team in Millstreet today
Life as usual goes on in the Town far away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Oh I Must Go Home To Millstreet
The singing birds of Millstreet are calling, calling me
In my dreams I hear them whistling far beyond the deep wide sea
The green, green wood by Clara hill is always on my mind
On the day that I left Millstreet I left my heart behind.
Buttercups bloomed by the grass fringed rills and larks piped in the skies
As I said goodbye to Clara hill with teardrops in my eyes
The blue bluebells were blooming along the green bohreens
On the day that I bade farewell to Millstreet and her meadows and her streams.
The farmers mow the lush green meads that surround Millstreet Town
As the heathery face of Clara on them lovingly looks down
The shlaun men shlaun the shiny dark peat and the pikes are on the sway
In Gneeves bog outside of Millstreet on this bright Summer's day.
Oh I must go back to Ireland to the Land where I was born
Just to hear again the birds sing on a Spring like April morn
Oh I must go home to Millstreet for 'tis there I'd love to die
And be buried under Millstreet earth beneath an Irish sky.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Sean Radley Is To Millstreet
What Pele was to Brazil or Caesar was to Rome
Sean Radley is to Millstreet the place I still call home
And he's not been a warrior or been known for football
But in that Town by Clara hill he's best loved one of all.
Sean Radley is a hero for kindness he has shown
And all around Duhallow by everyone he's known
And about him those who know him have no bad word to say
And to help out other people he go out of his way.
To the Millstreet Museum Society some of his spare time he devote
And about the history of Millstreet some fine articles he's wrote
As a humanitarian and historian Sean Radley earned his fame
And all around Duhallow his is a well known name.
What Caesar was to Italy or Pele was to Brazil
Sean Radley is to Millstreet that Town by Clara hill
And he's not been a warrior or been known for football
But in Millstreet in Duhallow the best loved one of all.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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
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I Will Take You Home To Millstreet
I will take you home to Millstreet when the may is in her bloom
And the green meads cloked with wildflowers scent of nature's sweet perfume
And the dark winged barn swallows white unders and throat rust brown
Wheel above the lush green pastures bordering Millstreet's country town.
I will take you home to Millstreet to the town by Clara hill
When the dipper sings her sweetest on green bank of babbling rill
And the male snipe late at evening with his wings make goat like sound
As above the silent rush fields he goes flying around and round
I will take you home to Millstreet when soft grass growing breezes blow
And relive again the old days with old friends I used to know
And give a call into the Bush Bar for the dance and the sing song,
I will take you home to Millstreet if with me you'll come along.
Will you come with me my darling to green valleys far away
When the birds in leafy woodlands pipe their sweetest notes of May
To the Land I still call Homeland, to the country of my youth
Ireland, North Cork and Duhallow where my manhood first took
root.
poem by Francis Duggan
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On The Passing Of Dan Leary
Dan Leary was a legend of old Millstreet but he'll never more be seen in Millstreet Town
Or in the Townpark on a Summer's evening With a pair of greyhounds walking up and down
He was a sterling corner back in his prime a stalwart of Millstreet Gaelic Football
Fearless and hard but fair he never shirked a challenge as those who played against him do recall.
For many years he was a Millstreet butcher the Learys of the West End were well known
And Dan the Millstreet schoolboys of the fifties did look up to we were so proud he was one of our own
In Cork County Championship Games in Coachford and in Macroom Dan Leary at his best was often seen
One of his Club's greatest defensive players it was with pride he wore the Millstreet green.
It was with sadness I read of his passing in the flesh one that we never more will see
But for as long as I have the power to remember he surely will live in my memory
He was so down to earth and unassuming and to his friends he always remained true
'Tis not because he's dead I sing his praises in words I only give the man his due.
Dan Leary a legend of Duhallow Gaelic Football now with the dead of Millstreet Parish lay
'Tis sad to think we never more will see him but good memories of him with us bound to stay
The best forwards in Cork Gaelic Football against him always found it hard to score
It was with pride he wore the green of Millstreet and may he rest in peace forever more.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Mick Cashman
In the Cork County Senior Football Championship Final of 1957 I still recall the day
The last time I see Mick Cashman for his home club Millstreet Play
At the Cork Athletic grounds that day the Duhallow men were beat
The City Club St Finbarrs proved too good for Millstreet.
The Barrs fans celebrated the victory was sweet
But Mick Cashman played a great game he was gallant in defeat
In the biggest day in Cork County for the game of Gaelic Football
And though Millstreet lost to go that far they did well overall.
Mick Cashman was ordained a priest and for New Zealand he was bound
Far from Millstreet in Duhallow and Tullig his home ground
In the green and gold of Millstreet he was never seen again
But what was a loss to Ireland was surely New Zealand's gain.
Mick Cashman was a gentleman and of him 'twould be fair to say
That to help out other people he went out of his way
A Parish Priest in New Zealand where he was known far and wide
And his success in his adopted Country to Millstreet a sense of pride.
He is buried in New Zealand far south and far away
From Tullig above Millstreet Town where he first saw light of day
Last saw him in a Cork County Final for Millstreet playing Gaelic Football
A good memory till my own end that I surely will recall.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Perhaps I'll Never Again See Old Clara Mountain
I'm getting on in years and looking older even than my age of two years with three score
And perhaps I'll never again see old Clara Mountain and climb the high fields up through Claramore
In Claraghtalea I started my life's journey but I'm not to know where and when that journey will end
In sixty two years I've known a lot of people but not everyone I've known I'd call a friend
I often think about the Town of Millstreet where mine once was a fairly well known face
Though there today I well might be a stranger a stranger even in my old Homeplace
I am one of many migrants from Duhallow for to try my luck in the big World out there
Duhallow people are known to be travellers and one from there one could meet anywhere
I often think of those I went to school with many of them the grandparents of today
Perhaps the years have left them looking older even some of them with the departed lay
It has been many years since I've last seen them the years eventually do tell on all
On looking back our young years went so quickly and for everyone of us a final Fall
Perhaps I'll never again see old Clara Mountain or walk in the fields where the rank rushes grow
In Claraghatlea I began my life's journey but where and when that journey will end I'm not to know.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Millstreet's Ageing Heroes
I never was a Millstreet sporting icon or in any field of sport knew of renown
But I'm the one who is left to sing the praises of the sporting greats of Millstreet my Hometown
Many of Duhallow's finest sports people are from Millstreet they did the green and gold of their Club proud
In every Public Bar around Duhallow the poets and singers sung their praises loud
Nowadays not many sporting greats in Millstreet in Athletics or Gaelic Football
Of late so very few sporting successes for future generations to recall
Of sporting greats Millstreet had it's golden era but nothing lasts forever as they say
The youth in sports perhaps not interested and the former heroes have grown old and gray
In Gaelic Football as well as in Athletics Millstreet has produced many a famous name
The ageing heroes have grown stiffer and slower they had their time and they enjoyed their fame
We can only remember them with fondness lets hear it for the heroes of the past
But life goes on and only Nature is forever and nothing else does ever seem to last
Back there by the old mountains of Duhallow the people like the Seasons come and go
The heroes of past decades getting older the years have left them feeling stiff and slow.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Bob Justice
Bob Justice was an old pipe smoking fellow
And outside his shop on Main Street Millstreet Town
He and his sister May often sat talking
Whilst he greeted people passing up and down.
He became well known through his business and bakery
And as a man who owned and raced greyhounds
And it's been said that Bob enjoyed a gamble
And he often bet up to one hundred pounds.
He must have smoked a lot of pipe tobacco
As much as anyone for miles about
And perhaps more than anybody else in Millstreet
For his pipe was seldom distant from his mouth.
His wife from Cockhill and they had two daughters
And one of them Geraldine owns the shop today
And though it's been years since Bob Justice was living
On looking back it only seems yesterday.
If there's a Heaven there you'll find Bob Justice
Smoking his pipe distant from Millstreet Town
And in the cool shade sitting in the sunshine
And greeting people passing up and down.
poem by Francis Duggan
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To Alan O Connor A Young K.R.R. Fan
He was so young just fourteen years and he had one great dream
To play for Killarney Road Rovers the Millstreet soccer team
To play for Killarney Road Rovers and to prove himself a man
He loved the game, he loved his team and he was a Rovers fan.
But Alan did not get the chance to carve his own renown
In football field at Claraghatlea just west of Millstreet Town
For Rovers in the Kerry league he'll not line out to play
An angel met him going to school and carried him away..
He did not live to ripe old age to slow and fade and die
His span was brief so very brief like rose flower of July
He did not live to fulfil his dream for Rovers play football
God needed him in Paradise and God know best of all.
But Alan will be still around when Rovers come to play
His ghost will be there watching them in field at Claraghatlea
And Rovers fans will talk about their star who would have been
The lad an angel took from Millstreet Town when he was just fourteen.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Brendan Moynihan
He played football for Millstreet in his twenties
And he is one I readily can recall
Quiet spoken, down to earth and unassuming,
A powerful fellow over six foot tall.
He owned a pub in the West End of Millstreet
Inherited from his mother in her will
And outside the pub door on a cloud free evening
One had a clear view of old Clara hill.
A gentle giant his friends were in the many
And he would only help you if he could
And I will always recall Brendan Moynihan
As one who had in him a lot of good.
He always kept a couple of racing greyhounds
For Millstreet is a dog and football Town
On Summer evenings near the Town Park people walk their greyhounds
Whilst young men chase the football up and down.
A gentle giant admired and well respected
For Millstreet in his prime he played football
And when I reminisce about my Hometown
He's one of those I often do recall.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Cormac Dinneen
They wanted him in Kerry to play with their football team
But Cormac he loved Millstreet and he wore their famous green
And he too wore the red Cork jersey with passion and with pride
A legend in his playing days and he was known far and wide.
I watched him play as a veteran when he was past his prime
Way back in the late fifties some forty years in time
Against one ten years younger he more than held his own
A marvellous defender then one of the finest known.
The Millstreet fans they loved him a player they did revere
He never shirked a challenge a stranger to all fear
He never was found wanting when he was put to the test
And in the Cork County colours he played against the best.
When Millstreet's elder gaelic football fans talk of the Millstreet greats they've seen
A player they always mention is the great Cormac Dinneen
To them he was one of Millstreet's best and they still heap upon him praise
For he was one of their heroes in Millstreet's glory days.
And though time catch up on everyone and the years have made him slow
He was a Cork and Millstreet great some fity years ago
And in forty eight when Millstreet won the County he lived up to his name
As one of Ireland's best defenders then in the Gaelic football game.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Just Leave Me To Nature
In Claraghatlea near Millstreet my life's journey began
And in that old Townland i grew into a man
But i cannot say where my remains will lay
I will be with Nature and that is okay.
I will be with Nature and it will not matter to me then
If i am not remembered as one of the great men
Who were of a benefit to human kind
For centuries of fame i do not feel inclined.
I've heard her birds sing and I've breathed her air
Just leave me to Nature of me she'll take care
And even if my bones to ashes will burn
I was born of Nature and to her I'll return.
Just leave me to Nature for to rest in peace
From the cares of living I'll have found a release
In Claraghatlea near Millstreet i first saw light of day
But i am not to know where my remains will lay.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Though I've Done My Share Of Travel
Though I've done my share of travel I don't have much to show of Worldly gain
And 'tis been awhile and many Seasons since I've seen old Clara in the rain
And the fog crawl down the mountain on days cold enough to snow
And Finnow swollen by stormwater through the old fields bank high flow.
Though I've done my share of travel I cannot boast of Worldly success
And the judgemental social judges I have failed to impress
But worse for me than not knowing wealth and fame as I did crave for renown
Is to know I'd be a stranger now in Millstreet my Hometown.
I've done my share of travel beyond Duhallow's countryside
And I've mixed with many races people from places far and wide
And they still talk of their old Homelands many miles beyond the sea
The nostalgia for their old Hometowns in them as much as me.
For my travels and my years of life can't say I have much to show
And what success feels like I must admit I am not one who does know
And it has been more than twenty years since I've seen Finnow in flood of brown
Bank high flowing in the old fields just west of Millstreet Town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Lady Luck Has Been So Kind To Me
Some like to think that your past is gone forever
But your memories good or bad won't fade away
And green of Spring to the young eyes look greener
And our sense of wonderment grow less with every day.
And memories of a childhood close to Nature
Despite time's passage with me still remain
I hear the dunnock chirping on the hedgerow
And the skylark piping o'er the hill again.
I grew up west of Millstreet in Duhallow
And Summer days the happiest days of all
Free of the classroom and it's many restrictions
Such happy memories one tend to recall.
I often roamed by Nature's streams and rivers
And I grew to love the dipper's scratchy song
And I only feel now I might be a stranger
In Claraghatlea North where I once belong.
I could have been born to a ghetto mother
An Urban child condemned to poverty
Away from Mother Nature's joys and beauty
But lady luck has been so kind to me.
Male robin with the reddish breast is singing
In leafy grove just out of Millstreet Town
And greenfinch on a bay tree softly piping
In Quiet Mountleader as the sun goes down.
The country lad will always learn from Nature
The sparrows nest an untidy ball of hay
But they always line it with the softest feathers
And in Spring you hear their nestlings chirp all day.
The happy childhood memories will stay young forever
Though our sense of wonder ebbs as we grow old
And it's true each person to tell has a story
Though many stories must remain untold.
And my untold story is of my childhood close to Nature
A country boy is never ever poor
And I retain the memories of Spring mornings
When thrush and blackbird piped in Annagloor.
The cows from Wintering indoors out on pasture
And Duhallow flushed with wildflowers looking green
And I feel happy for my childhood memories
And happy for the beauty I have seen.
The moorhen chirp in tall reeds by the river
To warn her chicks when she sense danger near
And her dark and tiny offsprings swim to cover
And their cheepings I fancy I still can hear.
The horned sheep are high on Clara Mountain
The old man say a few fine days ahead
When sheep are grazing on or near the summit
The weather on the mend it has been said.
By circumstance of birth I have been lucky
And from childhood happy memories I retain
And I hear the dipper singing in the river
And the skylark piping o'er the hill again.
poem by Francis Duggan
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