O little River! running
‘Twixt Foremass and Cloghfin;
Thy voice is sad, though sweeter
Than harp or violin.
Thou that wert aye so cheerful,
Why art thou now forlorn?
What cause hast thou for grieving?
O Friend! why dost thou mourn?”

Sadly the river answered:-
“Comrade! my joy has fled:
The work of legislators
Has filled my soul with dread.
If I’m the river chosen
To cleave my land in twain,
I’ll mourn my lot for ever –
I’ll never laugh again.

Yon Foremass hills are daily
Their tribute pouring in:
Mingling their waters gaily
With waters of Cloghfin.
The Irish shamrock blooming
To left and right I find:
The North and South are treated
By the same sun and wind.

By neither mount nor river
Should Ireland severed be;
For Ireland all is Ireland –
Surrounded by the sea”
Thus sang a wise wee river
‘Twixt Foremass and Cloghfin,
With a sad voice, but sweeter
Than harp or violin.

Michael Mullin ‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.