Clean, green grassy meadows full of little flowers,
Rushes, bushes diademed with showers,
And quiet fields that hold delightful nooks and bowers
In the heart of the Foremass hills.

White, bright little cabins peeping through the trees,
Curling, whirling blue smoke on the breeze,
And winding bohreens that meander as they please
By the homes ‘mid the Foremass hills.

Come home, when Spring makes a million daisies blush,
Singing, swinging birds haunt tree and bush,
And the stream’s silver song melts in the golden hush,
Like a dream on the Foremass hills.

MICHAEL MULLIN

‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE