The scent of new-mown hay, the breath of peat
From Foremass fields, from Altamuskin brae!
O Winds, I thank you for the perfume sweet –
The breath of peat, the scent of new-mown hay.

We jog along, my faithful steed and I
(We’re carting home the turf loads from the bog).
We envy not the rich ones passing by
In motors grand, as in our cart we jog.

The ripening cornfields make a rustling sound,
As winds of autumn o’er the “enfield” blow;
The heather bells all beautiful abound
In Altamuskin, where the moor-cocks crow.

The blush of dawn, the sunset’s varied charms,
The skylark’s matin, and the curlew’s call,
The beauty of the boglands and the farms –
This wealth is mine: I am not poor at all.

O! Winds, I thank you for the perfume sweet –
The breath of peat, the scent of new-mown hay;
O! Sun, I thank you for the well-dried peat;
I thank you, God, Whom sun and winds obey.

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