Wee Burn! That passes by so near
My home, that I can sometimes hear
Thy feet go dancing on
Adown their rugged rocky way,
As they have done by night and day
Through all the ages gone.

In youth, to me ‘twas more than fun
To hear thee sing, to watch thee run.
Joy’s  chalice then I drank
While dreaming dreams of heroes bold,
Or trying men of clay to mould
From out thy blue-clay bank.

The men of clay I then designed,
And the child heroes of my mind
Like youthful days have gone:
Whilst thou, the youthfullest of rills,
And yet as ancient as the hills,
Still goest gaily on.

While generations come and go
Sing on! For God ordains it so;
Sing on, sing on, wee Burn!
While thy deep channel deeper wears
Still brighten hearts, and lighten cares,
And comfort souls that mourn.

Michael Mullin

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

Dreamy and tranquil, on this autumn eve,
Our little vale is held in the hill’s arms;
Like lovers in each other who believe,
They calmly wait the coming on of storms.

The sun, descending slowly to his rest,
Looks fondly back. From many a cottage pane
That peeps ‘neath leafy lashes to the West,
The reflex of his smile is flashed again.

Turf smoke is carried by the cooling breeze
From white-washed chimney-tops.  I rest upon
My scythe, and watch it curling o’er the trees,
Above each golden field and grassy lawn.

Laughter of children, cheerful talk of men
And women, the loud rattle of a cart,
The swish of scythes, the rustle of the grain
Mingle, and make music in my heart.

God  walks among His stooks in the dim light,
And listens to the rustling of His grain:
O, I’ll have much to thank Him for to-night –
Without His help my efforts all were vain.

Michael Mullin

‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

My native stream careers along
By holms of grass and fields of tillage,
It sings for me a rustic song
That ne’er was heard in town or village.

‘Tis very old in years, and yet
‘Tis very fresh and young and cheery;
It talks to me till I forget
The cares and work that made me weary.

I listen to the lowing herds,
The humming bees, the rippling river,
The sighing winds and singing birds –
O! I could listen on for ever.

The memory of a barefoot lad
Learning his lessons here I treasure.
I oft’ come here when I am sad.
I always come when I have leisure.

And  Oh! ‘twere sweet, life‘s labour done,
Retiring here, to end life’s even’ –
Fixing my faith in God alone
And centering all my hopes in Heaven.

Michael Mullin

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