In Matty Owen’s Bog

In Matty Owen’s bog going back decades ago
With Pudsy I hunted near where Finnow waters flow
Old Pudsy our faithful old brown cattle dog
She chased many a hare through the length of the bog.
But nothing in life ever does seem to last
The days of my boyhood they seemed to go fast
And more than four decades have passed since Pudsy passed away
She was a tough dog but she too had her day.
The curlew o’er the rushes he pipes all through May
His mate on a tussock on her blotched eggs did lay
His beautiful piping I fancy I hear
Some things from the past does remain ever near.
In the old rushy fields west of Millstreet Town
I often did walk as I daydreamed of renown
But such dreams for most never seem to come true
And happiness now is all I wish to pursue.
The little brown skylark carolled in the sky
He seemed a small speck as upwards he did fly
In Matty Owen’s bog in the Spring of the year
Even as the crow flies quite a long way from here.

by Francis Duggan

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