• Michael Mullins
  • Michael "The Bard" Mullin
  • "The Bard of Foremass"
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    A Robin sang

    ‘Twas harvest time. A robin small
    Perched on top twig of ash tree tall
    Outside our door.  For days we heard
    The broadcast of the little bird.

    It sang thro mist. It sang thro rain
    And in the sun it sang again,
    Upgazing at it, perched so high
    Silhouetted against the sky.

    We thought it was a hopeful sign
    That soon the weather would be fine,
    Our thoughts were of corn beaten flat.
    Its thoughts were of – I don’t know what.

    The whole week long, day after day
    It sang its song and said its say.
    The rain went past, the mist went past,
    The sun shone in clear skies at last.

    And now when safe is all the corn
    To robin, thanks let us return
    For all the Aves offered up
    To cheer us from the ash tree top.

    Lets not forget while stacks we rope
    The little harbinger of hope
    That did its very best to cheer
    When hopes were low and skies were drear.

    Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Tyrone.