Here in this garden old; here where the rush
And din of city traffic ne’er intrude;
Here where spring winds on budding tree and bush
Play fitting strains for such a solitude:

Here it is sweet to let my drifting dreams
Blend with the lark’s song and the thrush’s lay,
Blend with the melodies of rippling streams
That wind by meads where merry lamb-kins play.

With joy these pretty little flowers smile;
With joy these tender little buds expand;
With joy these grateful birds now sing, and toil
To make their future dwellings snug and grand.

The happiness of springtime drives away
The winter’s nightmare.  O! ‘tis sweet to hide
A little while, from cares and toils of day,
Within this garden old at eventide.

Not oft’ the busy world permits its slaves
To taste the joys of such a place as this –
This place for which the God-like spirit craves:
Because it holds God’s peace and heaven’s bliss.

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

When Spring has spread a flow’r-embellished carpet
For the wee lambs to stray on,
And decked with green leaves and with lovely blossoms
The harps the zephyrs play on,
And raised up sunbeam stairs to make it pleasant
For the skylark’s soaring –
‘Tis sweet with God to walk the fields of Foremass,
Admiring and adoring.

‘Tis sweet to walk along the Foremass river,
Beside the swaying sallies;
To hurry where the river’s in a hurry,
And dally where it dallies.
And while I hear the harmony of music,
And feast my eyes on beauty,
It is not toil to thank the great Creator –
But a most pleasing duty.

I thank Thee, God, for this calm, pleasant haven,
And the bright sky above me;
I thank Thee for the Spring, that helps my spirit,
To feel the goodness of Thee.
I thank Thee for these songs, that are an echo
Of Thine own accent’s sweetness,
And for these charms, which are a weak reflection
Of Thy subline completeness.

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

O, thrush! Thy voice is silent now; no more
The air is thrilled with thy delicious lay.
The wind’s sad song is heard instead; and o’er
The land is gloom and desolation grey.
Adown in yonder glen I loved to list,
At evening, to thy joy begotten song;
Till smitten by thee – an enthusiast –
My dreams to Eden wafted me along.
The wind’s cold fingers on the branches bare
Now harp a melancholy dismal keen,
For the now silent songsters of the air,
The sunshine, and the glory, and the green.
O! thrush! What grief now fills thy once glad breast,
Out in the frost and snow and sleety rain!
Take heart, dear friend! By present woes opprest –
Remember that the spring will come again.

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