• Michael Mullins
  • Michael "The Bard" Mullin
  • "The Bard of Foremass"
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    Poems
    A Fairy Field

    There is a field o’ergrown
    With grass and greening rushes,
    Afar in fair Tyrone,
    Tyrone among the bushes.

    A fairy field it is;
    I know it is enchanted;
    The proof of that is this –
    By it I’m ever haunted.

    A fence of thorn and whin
    Provided a border stately
    That lets no rude winds in;
    Winds enter there sedately.

    The sun, approving, peers
    Over the hedge-top early;
    And on a million spears
    Night’s million tears grow pearly.

    The bees from far away,
    When they that field discover,
    Speed there, nor brook delay –
    As to his tryst the lover.

    Beloved by feathered bards,
    From near and far they hurry
    To sing their kind regards;
    Long, loath to leave, they tarry.

    The dullest soul ‘twould rouse
    To hear that Eden ringing,
    When on a hundred boughs
    A hundred bards are singing.

    Few, few indeed could see
    That field and fail to love it;
    Oh! Hard the heart must be
    If these charms could not move it.

    MICHAEL MULLIN

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