What joy to wander o’er this mountain lonely,
My pent soul fluttering with rapture rare,
Unfettered fancies for companions only:

I float above earth’s petty toil and care!

‘Tis sweet to rest upon this giant’s bosom:
Sweeter to perch upon his princely crown,
While soft winds croon to heather in full blossom –
A regal robe of purple and of brown.

I shut my eyes – I hear the curlews calling –
Screams that should rouse the giant from his rest,
I ope my eyes – I see a lark down falling:
Or is it some bright spirit of the blest?

The hills, the plains, the valleys lie before me;
(Who would not love so beautiful a land?)
A roof magnificent, high heaven, is o’er me
By sunshine warmed, by cooling zephyrs fanned.

Alone with God upon the lonely mountain!
Each thought, each fancy is a prayer to Him;
My soul o’erflows with love towards the Fountain
Of Love. The world is far away and dim.

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

Here comes the Bogwind, beautiful and free
(I love the Bogwind, the Bogwind loves me).
On Altamuskin heather hill we meet
With lovingest embrace and kisses sweet.

From Altamuskin hill-top I survey
The hills and plains unfurling far away;
To fair Belleek that overlooks the sea
A long road lies between Belleek and me.

Yet comes the Bogwind all that long long way
To keep her tryst on Altamuskin brae,
So pure and fresh from the Atlantic surf
To cheer me here while toiling at the turf.

The Bogwind trips sedately o’er the heather,
The while we talk the bygones o’er together;
She sings me beautiful and mystic songs –
Songs never sung amid the city throngs.

The Bogwind’s voice is wonderfully sweet,
It blends the call of curlew, and peeweet,
The moorhens cackle, and the boglank’s trill,
And ringing heather bells upon the hill.

Upon the Bogwind’s airy pinions borne,
Fast from the past fond memories return,
God bless the Bogwind, beautiful and free,
I love the Bogwind, the Bogwind loves me.

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

The ceannabhans around the boglands glance,
And nod their white heads like old talking men;
The light feet of the bogwinds gaily dance
Across the heather hill and o’er the fen.

The long-beaked curlews circle through the air,
Their shrill notes cutting through the silence deep;
The bonny moorcocks hasten on to where
Brown moorhens guard upon their chickens keep.

I wade knee-deep among the heather brown;
I pause, and climb, and pause, and climb again –
And as I stretch me on the mountain’s crown
Sweet feelings fill my heart, sweet thoughts my brain.

And now a bog-lark rises at my feet;
It pauses, climbs, grows smaller, disappears:
It bears away to God a message sweet –
Too sweet a message for ungodly ears.

I feel a strange sweet rapture in my heart,
While strange sweet musings waft my soul abroad;
I feel no longer of the world a part –
While resting here upon this hill with God.

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