To Foremass far o’er the billows lying,
Like homing birds my dreams are flying,
And this lonely heart is ever sighing
For its fields far away,
For Foremass dreaming among its bushes,
The haunt of tuneful larks and thrushes,
Linnets and blackbirds. Oh! If wishes
Had wings, I’d fly to-day.

I long for the winding watercourses
That call the rills from their hilly sources;
I long for fields where the golden gorse is,
And the sweet-smelling hay;
For Foremass meadows where lambs are bounding;
For its groves with sylvan harps sweet-sounding
And cots with shady trees surrounding,
And the home of childhood gay.

To Foremass, set in a halo pleasant
Of visions past, that light the present,
Soon would the long, long leagues be lessened
If I could fly to-day.
To Foremass music, and Foremass flowers,
To Foremass sunshine, and Foremass showers,
To the balm and calm of Foremass bowers
Over the waves away.

Michael Mullin ‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co Tyrone.