I know a modest valley
That hides ‘mong kind old hills;
I know a dear old river,
Fed there by fairy rills.
In autumn, when few bird’s songs
Are heard the fields among,
I love to seek that river
And stroll its banks along.

Peaceful, and sweet and lovely:
And yet the city throngs
Know nothing of that river;
They’ve never heard its songs.
They never heard them coming –
As now they come to me –
Gold-framed in autumn stillness,
Across the twilit lea.

Now many a slender sally
Down gazes on that stream;
Like girls who in their splendour
Before their mirrors dream.
While sings that strain below me,
While croons the wind above;
My soul is salved with solace,
My heart is filled with love.

MICHAEL MULLIN

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