The reapers are mowing in Foremass meadows;
The sunbeams are chasing away the shadows
O’er fence and field;
The sweet winds are harping on branch and bramble,
That makes around us where we ramble
A pleasant shield.

We know by the gold with the green grain blending
That autumn is near us, and summer ending.
And in the hush –
While hearing the reapers in meadows mowing,
And turf carts o’er the white roads going –
We fondly wish.

That God may guide us through Foremass meadows,
By its rivers and roads, ‘mid the deep’ning shadows
Of Eventide;
With friends that we trust, and our loved ones near us,
And these dear scenes to soothe and cheer us
Down Life’s hillside.

–

Michael Mullin

‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

Clasped in the hills’ embrace, this vale reclines –
Like a sweet child within its mother’s arms;
Blows the cool wind, and the warm sunlight shines
On cosy cottages and peaceful farms.

This is my home.  It is a day of June,
I am reclining in my favourite spot;
So near a river that I hear its croon –
So far from cities that I know them not.

I love this happy valley and this stream
With love deep-rooted, permanent, and strong;
Here I perform my task, I dream my dream,
I sow and reap, and sing my simple song.

The song I sing may not be great or grand,
The test of time it may not long endure;
But it still fills my soul with solace and
My heart with pleasure that is sweet and pure.

Michael Mullin

‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

I walk the sleepy valley; while the dew
Like sleep on weary eyelids, softly falls.
There is no sound – save corncrakes calling to
Corncrakes that, echo-like, repeat the calls.

The day-god sinking to repose calls home
His truant beams, that fain would linger on;
But they must go to gild yon western dome,
And limn the east with glories of the dawn.

The blue peat smoke trails lazily away
O’er trees and fields from lime-washed chimney tops.
Slow moving farmers placidly survey
Their light green corn, dark green potato crops.

Fat, dull-eyed cattle stretched upon the grass
Seem almost too content to ruminate;
They hardly notice me as on I pass,
Picking my steps, through hoof-tracks, to the gate.

And here’s the river; crooning a hush song
To sleepy meadows – like a mother fond
Lulling her babe. Ah! who for worlds would long
The sleepy valley’s cradling hills beyond?

Michael Mullin
‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

Limn – to paint