The singing of a river down a valley
In Ireland far away seems near at hand;
Despite the din and distance of this city
I hear that ditty, low and clear and bland.
I never will forget the little cow-boy
The herded cattle where its waters flow,
In memory the scene is mirrored clearly –
For oh! I dearly loved it long ago.
The singing of that river is a blending
Of dreams of youth and truth and love and home.
At times its very sweetness is an arrow
Of pain and sorrow, while I toil or roam.
Albeit it saddens, I will hearken to it!
For ‘tis my solemn Monitor. It says –
“Forget me not, if you would e’er recapture
The peace, the rapture of your cow-boy days.”
The ringing of a river down a valley
In Ireland far away seems near at hand.
Despite the distance and this noisy city,
I hear that ditty low and clear and bland.
MICHAEL MULLIN
‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE
Oh! Hasten, brave ship! Bear me speedily over
The waters, for I am returning to die
In Erin, the land which I left, a gay rover
With vigour and courage and hopes that were high.
I slaved in New York till my energy wasted
In sweat, and in yearning from year unto year;
What misery, woe, disappointments I tasted! –
My story would wring from a tyrant a tear.
Oh! hasten, good ship! – Ha! She’s gallantly cleaving
The billows, – I’ll soon see that emerald shore,
Ah, me! How I’ve changed since the time of my leaving –
Then stalwart and blooming, now withered and hoar.
But still to the Old Faith – thank God for his graces,
Howe’er I have altered, I’ve steadfastly clung;
And so thus I return to the land where my race is,
To mingle my ashes my kindred’s among.
Upon a green hill there’s a graveyard where only
The singing of birds and the breezes are heard;
‘Tis there I’ll find rest in my damp bed and lonely –
I’ll sleep softly happed ‘neath the verdurous sward.
There rests waits the of a sad-hearted rover;
Kind robins will sing a lament o’er my grave,
Which soft dews will and shamrock will cover:-
So hasten, brave ship, bear me over the wave.
MICHAEL MULLIN
‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE
Clean, green grassy meadows full of little flowers,
Rushes, bushes diademed with showers,
And quiet fields that hold delightful nooks and bowers
In the heart of the Foremass hills.
White, bright little cabins peeping through the trees,
Curling, whirling blue smoke on the breeze,
And winding bohreens that meander as they please
By the homes ‘mid the Foremass hills.
Come home, when Spring makes a million daisies blush,
Singing, swinging birds haunt tree and bush,
And the stream’s silver song melts in the golden hush,
Like a dream on the Foremass hills.
MICHAEL MULLIN
‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE