In County Down,
there’s no brighter green,
and the peaks and valleys
are a sight to be seen.
‘Tis old Ireland they sing of
when bleak winter falls,
and by firesides the heart of
Ireland still calls.
And when storms the crags
of the mountains have crossed,
they tell of great battles
forgotten or lost.
My favourite colour is purple.
My favourite food is cheese.
I’m very fond of Saturdays
when I can do whatever I please.
My favourite season is Autumn
When the leaves are red and brown
I like to cycle up steep hills
and glide the same way down
My favourite animal is zebra.
I love those crazy stripes.
Magpie is my favourite bird
dressed in black and white.
My favourite place is the seaside,
the waves, the sand, the spray.
I swim and surf and jump the waves
and play around all day.
But last, not least, I have to say
are the ones I can’t do without –
my family, friends, my little dog
are my favourites without a doubt.
Aboard an old steam loco,
many years ago,
the driver and the fireman
worked by the firebox glow.
They stood upon the footplate,
wood layered over steel,
where the engine driver could
control the loco’s wheels.
The fireman shovelled coal —
he had no time to dream —
heating water in the boiler
to keep up lots of steam.
I did not see the cat play dead.
I did not see her on my head—
I did not see her hide inside
My newest hairdo wild and wide.
I did not hear her caterwaul,
Nor see the scratches on the wall,
I did not see her eat the mouse,
Or hide the body ‘neath the house.
I did not give her balls of yarns
Stored up in Grandma’s giant barns,
Nor see her with her claws destroy
Gran’s crochet, with a look so coy,
Nor leap off Grandma’s rocking-chair,
I did not see her anywhere—
I did not see her tip the vase
Of flowers, or upset the jars,
Or scowl to spy the neighbor’s cat,
Or hide under the tall top hat—
All that I saw was clearly that:
The cat sat on the mat.
I wonder who lived here;
I wonder why they went?
What fate struck these pioneers
and left their spirit spent?
They built their dreams to last,
stone by golden stone,
but now these dismal relics
lie ragged and alone.
Teacher’s note: One of many abandoned dwellings in Burra, South Australia.
Everyone asks me
the same old question,
and it interferes
with my digestion.
How do I look
down in the mud?
The dam’s so cold
I can’t chew my cud.
So if you ask me
how I am now,
I’m a very grubby
hungry cow.
Now look here, Spider, I’m grateful to you,
For eating flies and cockroaches too.
But in my shower when it’s time for my bath –
That, I’m afraid, incurs my wrath.
With this broom, I’ll chase you out.
Please don’t jump or you’ll make me shout.
Stay very still while I get the brush,
Then into the toilet for one big flush.
Oh, poor little spider, what have I done?
I’ve gone and killed you. That’s not fun.
You didn’t deserve it, not one bit.
You should have hidden where my broom couldn’t fit.
Another spider? Does this make two?
Are you a brother? Oh no . . . it’s you!
I thought you drowned, but you’re still alive!
What’s your secret? How’d you survive?
Now you’re back, I am relieved.
No longer must I be aggrieved.
But please take heed, my leggy friend.
Don’t come too close – it will be your end.
Silent silo,
commerce fails,
no more trains,
rusting rails.
Rain and wind
sweep platforms clean,
railway ghosts
go unseen.
Teacher’s note: South Australia’s Burra railway station was a busy stop on the main line to Broken Hill and Perth.Passenger services ceased in December 1986, and the last grain trains operated in 1999. Volunteers have lovingly restored the station buildings.
In a Polish village,
opening to the sun,
I found all these flowers
when spring had well begun.
What a splash of colour,
I was lucky to be there,
where ancient wooden houses
huddled round the square.
One willie wagtail sang a sweet song,
he was joined by another
before very long.
Two willie wagtails built a snug nest
with feathers and flowers
and leaves softly pressed.
Three willie wagtails perched in a tree,
mummy and daddy
and baby makes three.
