Dreamy and tranquil, on this autumn eve,
Our little vale is held in the hill’s arms;
Like lovers in each other who believe,
They calmly wait the coming on of storms.
The sun, descending slowly to his rest,
Looks fondly back. From many a cottage pane
That peeps ‘neath leafy lashes to the West,
The reflex of his smile is flashed again.
Turf smoke is carried by the cooling breeze
From white-washed chimney-tops. I rest upon
My scythe, and watch it curling o’er the trees,
Above each golden field and grassy lawn.
Laughter of children, cheerful talk of men
And women, the loud rattle of a cart,
The swish of scythes, the rustle of the grain
Mingle, and make music in my heart.
God walks among His stooks in the dim light,
And listens to the rustling of His grain:
O, I’ll have much to thank Him for to-night –
Without His help my efforts all were vain.
‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.