I know a modest valley
That hides ‘mong kind old hills;
I know a dear old river,
Fed there by fairy rills.
In autumn, when few bird’s songs
Are heard the fields among,
I love to seek that river
And stroll its banks along.

Peaceful, and sweet and lovely:
And yet the city throngs
Know nothing of that river;
They’ve never heard its songs.
They never heard them coming –
As now they come to me –
Gold-framed in autumn stillness,
Across the twilit lea.

Now many a slender sally
Down gazes on that stream;
Like girls who in their splendour
Before their mirrors dream.
While sings that strain below me,
While croons the wind above;
My soul is salved with solace,
My heart is filled with love.

MICHAEL MULLIN

‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE

O, softly, sweetly sail along,
And sweep the fields, and touch the trees;
I love to listen to your song –
Dear Irish breeze.

Old Gaelic songs by cailins sung,
And children’s laughter echo sweet;
And rills, that ripple meads among,
On silver feet.

The lark above the mountain’s crest,
The thrush within the shady glen
Could make the sad and the opprest
Feel glad again.

And yet – there’s some strange talisman
In your sweet croon, O Irish breeze!
More tender and more touching than
All, all of these.

While herding in my father’s field,
A dreamy lad from troubles free,
Your song, through golden gorsy shields,
Was dear to me

Oh! How our exiles would rejoice
‘Mong crowded cities o’er the sea,
Could they but hear once more your voice,
Loved Irish breeze!

And how their hearts with joy would thrill,
Could they but fill their lungs again
With pure winds of an Irish hill,
Or Irish glen!

O Irish breeze! When far you roam
Where exiles roam beyond the seas,
Console them, soothe them, call them home –
Blest Irish breeze!

MICHAEL MULLIN

‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE

There’s a mountain crowned with heather
In the far-off land, asthore!
Where we dallied oft together
In the distant days of yore.
Then, in August and September,
‘Twas a lovely sight to see –
As I’m sure you will remember
If you still remember me.

Once I plucked a heather blossom,
And I set it in your hair;
And you pinned one on my bosom –
O, how happy we were there!
O, those moments fair and fleeting!
Sanguine hopes, and visions high!
O, the rapture of each meeting!
And the pain of each good-bye!

Scenes of youth I well remember,
Though my youth and prime are o’er;
But in August and September
I am haunted by them more:
Haunted till a sad, wild longing
Grips me, fills me with unrest,
And the old home scenes come thronging,
And old loves disturb my breast.

Then the peewit’s lonesome crying,
And the curlew’s plaintive call
Come to me, when day is dying,
And the gleaming shadows fall;
And they fan hope’s fading ember,
Those dear scenes again to see –
Which I’m sure you still remember
If you still remember me.

MICHAEL MULLIN

‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE