O, little river running over pebbles!
Full many a tender mem’ry I recall,
While list’ning by your margin to your murmur,
And  watching brown leaves on your bosom fall.

There’s sweetness in the music of your making;
There’s solace in the stillness of your glen;
There’s beauty in yourself and your surroundings,
Unrivalled ‘mid the hives of hurried men.

The magic of your mirror leaves me gazing
Down on the flying clouds and azure sky.
Longtime I watch our forward running rapids,
Till backward up your course I seem to hie.

The crooning of November winds above you,
The murmur of your ripples at my feet,
The mingling of these melodies together
To a world-weary care-worn heart, how sweet!

Michael Mullin

‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

My youth is o’er; the years more swiftly go,
While toil and time make my steps staid and slow;
Yet still it gladdens me to wander back
Along the green banks of the Owenbrack.

The Owenbrack flows near my native home;
Along the Owenbrack I used to roam
When childhood’s glamour gilded everything,
And I was happy as the birds of Spring.

Here, from my schoolbooks in those happy times,
I learned by heart the unforgotten rhymes
Than haunt me still, and often call me back
To walk the green banks of the Owenbrack.

It used to sing to me of hopes and joys
That thrill the hearts of dreamy, sanguine boys;
Then angel voices sang in every tree,
And harping winds drew heav’n down to me.

Now from the halls of Memory it brings
The songs of other days, lone echoings;
And voices of the friends who can’t come back
To walk with me along the Owenbrack.

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

‘Tis sweet to walk at ease, or sit and dream,
While the soft music of the crooning breeze
Blends with the murmur of a singing stream,
And songs of happy birds among the trees.

And it is sweet to watch the setting sun
Kissing the clouds of evening till they blush;
Changing to glories all the vapours dun,
With one grand sweep of His unrivalled brush.

And yet the crowds go hurrying along,
Deaf to this music, to this picture blind;
Although they’ll never hear a sweeter song –
Never a fairer Nature-picture find.

Heaven is not distant: it is all around
Benignant souls, blest with the gifted ear
To mark earth’s heavenly harmonies of sound,
And eye to see heaven manifested here.

O, may my soul be ever sensitive
To charms of sky and sea and flower and sod;
And may the songs and grace of Nature give
My soul fresh stimulus to soar to God.

MICHAEL MULLIN – ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.