O! the fun that is in Foremass at the stacking of the corn,
When autumn sun and wind have swept away the dews of morn;
Then Pat who has surveyed the stooks declares ‘tis time to start;
And Jamey currycombs the mare, and yokes her to the cart;

And Fracey goes to make a stile; and Biddy carries whins;
And little Tom for hook and fork and rake and tether runs.
And soon the rattling cart proclaims to whom it may concern
That onward to the haggard come the mare and load of corn.

Again the mare is trotted off towards the field of stooks;
While Biddy grasps her pitchfork – like a heroine she looks;
She aims the sheaves at Francy who is building on the stack:
Each hurrying to be finished ere another load comes back.’

‘Tis thus the pleasant work goes on, while song and laugh beguile
The busy hours away, and help to lighten heavy toil
O! it is exhilarating on a sunny autumn morn
In Foremass field or haggard at the stacking of the corn.

Michael Mullin

‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

Footnote by  P.D. – This was a pre-vintage scene on the farm as the corn stacks were built in the haggard.  The haggard was a small enclosed area beside the homestead where the hay and corn stacks were built.  It had to be surrounded by a hedge and ditch to keep the stock away from it.  The size of the farm could be judged by the size of the haggard.

This scene shows the great use made of all the plants growing on the farm, including the whins that Francy used to make a style.  The style was the first layer of whins on the ground  about a foot or two deep to keep the sheaves of oats from the dampness of the soil.  There was generally a depth of stones on the ground and the style was built on this. As stacks were usually round in shape, these circles of stones may still be seen at some old farmsteads.  Then rushes were used to thatch the stacks when they had settled down for a few weeks and the thatch kept the corn dry and safe for the whole winter.  This was recycle, reuse in the greenest possible manner.

There are five people mentioned in this poem and as well the woman of the house was busy in her kitchen getting the meals ready for all the workers.

I hear a wee  bird sing
Upon a budding bough;
I feel the breath of Spring
Like balm upon my brow;
Lark-like, my heart on wing
Sings the song of the plough.

O, thrush! O, joyous thrush!
Fain would I ask of you
What makes the glad notes gush,
Spontaneous and true?
Far from your hawthorn bush
Sail Care and all her crew.

I hear the lambkin bleat;
I see it now at play;
Wow! horses, wow!!! ‘tis sweet
To watch its frolics gay.
While shade and sunshine fleet
Race over Foremass brae.

Dear feathered friends of mine!
Your gladness makes me glad;
Your melodies divine
Make me once more a lad,
Herding my father’s kine –
Ere sorrows made me sad.

I hear a wee bird sing;
A daisy’s smile I see;
I feel the kiss of Spring –
She trips along with me;
While I am following
My plough along the lea.

Michael Mullin

‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

To-day in dreams I stand on Carrickascopal,
On Carrickascopal with its golden crown;
Where Foremass smiles across at Altamuskin –
On either face no shadow of a frown.

Spring now is there; and song and beauty linger
On Carrickascopal, and each sunlit brae
And down the valley where the shining river
Pursues, with graceful curves, its pleasant way.

What dreams I dreamt of yore on Carrickascopal!
A sanguine and enthusiastic boy.
‘Mong dust of dreams and ghosts of vanished visions,
I feel a longing pain and a sad joy.

I know the birds now sing on Carrickascopal;
I know spring now has decked its gorse with gold –
But oh! I know not am I there remembered
By friend or playmate of the days of old.

Michael Mullin
‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.