The guerdon of my spring work I behold-
Fields of ripe grain that bends to autumn’s blast –
Wavelets of gold upon a sea of gold;
The hoped-for harvest time has come at last.

Shine down O Sun! upon the gleaming blade
With which the swathes of yellow corn I reap.
And breezes blow: I count upon your aid
To bend the stalks I gather at each sweep.

Peat smoke curls gracefully above the trees;
The sunbeams gleam on many a window –pane;
Sweet is the music that the autumn breeze
Plays on the tree-harps and the reeds of grain.

The sun’s now painting pictures in the West
(Our harvest sunsets are a treat to see),
The weary wind has rocked itself to rest;
And shadows gather o’er the stooks and me.

Silence and night! I gaze a little while
On far dim stars and the moon’s placid face,
Until I fancy I behold the smile
Of happy angels round the Queen of Grace.

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

O April showers! softly fall.
O April airs! caress the flowers.
O April sun! smile down on all
This land of ours.

Wild birds are wooing now.  Their words
Are in a language strange to me.
Could I translate love-songs of birds
How blest I’d be!

Now is the time when farmers sow;
They set the seeds beneath the sod –
Strong in their trust that crops will grow –
Their trust in God.

Wind-driven cloud-ships sail above;
Below their shadows swiftly pass.
Over the tillage fields they move,
Over the grass.

And at their passing as I gaze
I think how like this life of ours
Is April with its changeful days
Of sun and showers!

O April with its smiles and tears!
Ah April with its sun and rain!
O joys and sorrows of the years –
Pleasure and pain.

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

The April sun comes smiling after showers;
The clouds fly, and the valley fills with flowers;
The birds sing, and the one-time timid buds
Are clapping baby hands in all the woods.

Gold on the gorse, and silver on the brook,
And brown bees buzzing in each sunny nook:
Who says we’re poor, with so much wealth around?
If heav’n’s like this, it is a happy ground.

I walk ‘mong fields where I have laboured long
To plant the little seeds fit mould among.
And now I see the corn-spears pierce the clod,
While my heart fills with gratitude to God.

Men may be cruel, and the times be bad –
Yet much have I for which my heart is glad:
God’s helping Hand, the Beauty of His Face –
The springing crops, the valley’s April grace.

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