Hi for the hills of purple heather,
Ho for the breezy mountain tops!
Now in the golden autumn weather –
Hi for the hills of purple heather
Too long tied by a business tether –
Too long stuck in the stuffy shops –
Hi for the hills of purple heather,
Ho for the breezy mountain tops!

Always to me the hills are splendid,
Now in the autumn they are best;
With green and brown and purple blended,
Always to me the hills are splendid.
Now to their welcome arms extended
I fly like child to mother’s breast.
Always to me the hill are splendid,
But now in autumn they are best.

Back on the hills for which I’m yearning,
I’ll watch the glorious God of day
With sunsets grand the west adorning.
Back on the hills for which I’m yearning
I’ll watch him ope the gates of Morning,
And drive the hosts of Night Away.
Back on the hills for which I’m yearning
I’ll watch the glorious god of day.

Hi for the hills with pristine graces
As they came from the hands of God –
With breezy crowns and bright brae faces
Hi for the hills with pristine graces;
The fairest, most forsaken places;
Shunned by the despot and the fraud.
Hi for the hills with pristine graces,
As they came from the hands of God.

MICHAEL MULLIN, ‘The Bard of Foremass’ Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross Tyrone.

The corn is ripening in yonder valley,
The heather is in blossom o’er yon bog:
And I am on the crooked road between them –
A-dreaming in my cart as on I jog.

The turf should all be home before the harvest –
So hurry up, old horse, and don’t be slack;
Three loads of turf we have to draw home daily –
And even thus we’ll slowly raise our stack.

The little birds are silent in the valley,
The wind is scarcely stirring in the trees;
But still upon the hill are curlews screaming,
And o’er the bog there blows a cooling breeze.

The crooked road goes curving up the hill-side,
And though ‘tis somewhat rough with jolts and jars,
I envy not, while carting on this bog road,
The grand folk motoring in gorgeous cars.

Ride on, ye rich! I don’t begrudge your grandeur;
For I have beauty here and pleasures sweet –
The beauty of the bog and of the valley,
The perfume of the fields, the breath of peat.

The purple of the mountain’s autumn mantle,
The gold and green of the maturing grain,
The sleepy silence of the crooked bog road
That leads me to the bog, and home again.

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

The gorse has shed its golden bloom –
Its hour of triumph past. The broom
With fresh and gaudy flag unfurled
Smiles proudly o’er a smiling world.
Fortune has raised us, turf-men, up
O’er vales and towns; this mountain top,
So warm, so cool, so calm, so sweet
Is heaven. The world is at our feet.

The sun, unchallenged, reigns on high,
The bog winds pure and cool go by,
From hill to hill they dance along
To the sweet beat of their own song.
The ceannabhans nod heads of snow,
Like tired old men, as the winds blow.
The heather rustles, and the peat
Curl up and harden in the heat.

The moorcocks crow, the curlews cry,
A friendly cuckoo passes by.
All sounds here somehow harmonize
The deep calm over all that lies.
And now hurrah! A lark ascends –
God bless you, lark! my first of friends!
My song is ended; when larks sing
Wise men should do the listening.

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