Oh, the brown bogs of Ireland! the brown bogs of Ireland!
Fond fancy often wafts me o’er the intervening sea,
To the dear scenes of my childhood, to each soft vale and wildwood –
But the brown bogs of Ireland have a special charm for me.

Oh, the brown bogs of Ireland! the brown bogs of Ireland!
Full many a pleasant hour I passed upon the mountain’s heath,
While the Irish sun shone o’er me, and the moor-fowl fled before me,
As I roamed with dear companions, and surveyed the vales beneath.

Oh, the brown bogs of Ireland! the brown bogs of Ireland!
Now often in my day dreams in this city’s throbbing heart,
I forget its din and bustle, and I hear the heather rustle
In the wind, as o’er the mountain road I drive an Irish cart.

Oh, the brown bogs of Ireland! the brown bogs of Ireland!
I fancy here I listen to the mountain lark on high;
I see it skyward winging, and I hear its wild notes ringing,
And I watch it disappearing in the blue depths of the sky.

Oh, the brown bogs of Ireland! the brown bogs of Ireland!
The thought of them recalls me to a pretty girlish face
Wistful eyes and wavy tresses, which the mountain wind caresses;
Oh! Kathleen, in my desert heart there’s still a verdant place.

Oh, the brown bogs of Ireland! the brown bogs of Ireland!
I’m weary of the city, with its wickedness and care;
I’m lone with thousands round me, for their cold looks only wound me
Oh, the brown bogs of Ireland! I would that I were there.

Michael Mullin ‘The Bard of Foremass’

 Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

There is a mountain in the north of Eirinn
A giant garmented in mantle brown,
Ah! I am longing to be thither fairing,
In May, with bogmen, up from farm and town.

I know the giant is waiting weary,
Waiting for us and for the Maytime dear –
Weary with listening through the winter dreary
To naught save curlews, and to storm winds drear.

I know the mountain will be glad to greet us
(With turf spades and turf barrows as we go)
With sweet embraces will the Bogwind meet us,
And heather flags to welcome us will blow.

Then in a land of freedom and of heather,
Of open spaces in a sunlit land.
We’ll cut the turf and spread them to the weather
And oft-times pause to hear the bog-lark bland.

There is a mountain in the north of Eirinn;
Though drear in winter, ‘twill be bright in May,
When we the bogmen, will be  thither fairing –
Blithe as the bog – larks at the break of day.

Michael Mullin‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

Were you e’er in Altamuskin at the cuttin’ o’ the peat,
When the summer sun is shinin’, an’ the mountain air is sweet?
When the farmers come from Foremass, Aghnagar, an’ Bellakeel,
With the turf-spades that they carry, an’ the barrows that they wheel.

In the city here what memories come surgin’ through my brain!
In fancy I am walking up the mountains road again.
To cheer the toilers at their work, the skylark sings his best,
The moorhen cackles loudly when molested on her nest.

‘Tis mid-day now; we gladly stretch our weary limbs awhile,
An’ have a good old dinner in the good old gipsy style;
O, the air of Altamuskin is an appetizer good –
An’ heavy works the medicine can make us relish food.

An’ now the neighbours gather round, the youthful an’ the old;
A happy hour is whiled away, the drollest tales are told.
There are maidens sly, and maidens shy, and pretty girls among
Blithe lads who know the way to keep the girls from thinkin’ long.

In the centre o’ the city here ‘tis oft an’ oft I sigh
For the cackle o’ the moorhen, an’ the curlews piercing cry,
The singin’ o’ the mountain lark, the air so pure an’ sweet –
In old Altamuskin, at the cuttin’ o’ the peat.

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