In Fancy I Do Hear The Male Pheasant Crow Poem by Francis Duggan

In fancy I do hear the male pheasant crow
In the field by the river where the rank rushes grow
A father though none of his young he does know
The females to his life they come and they go.

By this time next year he may not be alive
As the pheasant shoot in the Fall he may well not survive
Many male pheasants by shooters shot dead as they fly
He may not be here for to crow next July.

But long after he to the forever has gone
His D N A in his descendants is destined to live on
They will be heard crowing where the rushes grow tall
The survivors of the pheasant shoot of the Fall.

In fancy the old fields never far away
Where the rushes grow tall by the river today
In the quiet of the evening by the old country town
The pheasant is crowing as the sun is going down.