From Foremass Hill, as Sol sinks down to rest,
I watch that artist brightening up the west,
A pleasing landscape now before me lies –
First, fields of different shape and hue and size;
Then valleys, hills, more valleys, mountains tall,
Remoter loftier mountains over all.
A neighbouring ploughman on a neighbouring height
Above the skyline shows, then sinks from sight;
A cailin calls “Wheet wheet which means “Come back”,
To wandering ducks, and they reply “Quack quack”
The plundering magpies and marauding crows,
Their day’s raids o’er, retire to their repose,
An optimistic thrush its vesper ends,
A blackbird’s whistle with a bouchaill’s blends.
A farm cart rattles o’er a rugged way,
Wee silver-tongued redbreast concludes its lay.
A west wind blows from each chief chimney stack
Of every home, a blue smoke banner back –
I think of West-bound ships and Gaels who roam;
Oh, Eire you are poor – but you are home.

–

MICHAEL MULLIN

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