My Dreams Of Fame Poem by Francis Duggan

I thought I might know local fame some literary renown
In old Duhallow far away and Millstreet my hometown
But my verses were not good enough even for local fame
And now I'm resigned to the fact that few know me by name.

Of my dreams of fame my dreams of fame you've heard it all before
I wrote my verses in the high green wood of Claramore
The robin with his breast puffed up sang on the larch tree
bough
The same song his grandfather sung that his grandson sings now.

The wood pigeons cooed on the trees in the wood by the hill
And jackdaw to her chimney nest carried sticks in her bill
And the dippers piped their scratchy notes and flowers bloomed by the streams
And the Spring inspired my dreams of fame but they were only dreams.

Like blossoms on the hawthorn tree that briefly bloomed in May
My dreams of fame my dreams of fame have gone into decay
Just one of the many who had dreams and one of the many who
Felt disappointed to realize that dreams seldom come true.

I only dreamt of local fame but in hindsight I recall
That my dreams of fame my dreams of fame were just dreams after all
I wrote my rhymes by Clara hill and dreamt of what might be
But in Duhallow where I lived few now remember me.