I wear a picture in my heart, no matter where I rove,
A picture reminiscent of home and peach and love,
A picture framed by hills that rise through skies of Irish blue,
A stream-divided valley – a simple rustic view.

The bloom upon the apple tree, the gold upon the gorse,
And snowy thorns in blossom by the silver watercourse;
A cailin driving cattle home presents a picture fair –
The sunshine in her dreamy eyes, and on her golded hair.

A corncrake calling in the vale to concrakes up the hills,
A cuckoo flying overhead, a skylark higher still.
A cottage peeping through the trees; turf-smoke, like banners blue;
A window where the setting sun surveys his image true.

A cottage where the roses climb against a snow-white wall.
And framed within the open door the sweetest rose of all.
I wear this picture in my heart, no matter where I rove –
A picture that reminds me of home and peace and love.

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

There’s one old song for which my heart still listen,
There’s one old road where still in dreams I rove,
Love wafts me back, defying time and distance
Back to the old home road and youth and love.

I hear one voice where many friends are talking,
I see one smile where many round me smile,
I walk with one where many friends are walking,
With one and with one only all the while.

I sing one song. To crooning of streams flowing,
And clean winds blowing, this one song is set,
I dream one dream, lovely as lilacs growing,
Along the road I shall never forget.

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

O’ harper gray, sing not for me
Your songs of glee and gladness;
But strike your harp-strings mournfully,
And sing me a song of sadness;
Gay music seems with its mirth to taunt
And mock my misery;
Music of sorrow soothes sorrow best –
Sad songs are the songs for me.

Sing a song of exiles tempest-tost;
Or true-love’s tragic story;
Or of patriots who fought and lost,
But whose names live on in glory.
Sing of fond dreams and high hopes laid low
By the frost of penury;
The song of mourning suits mourners best –
Sad songs are the songs for me.

Sweeter to me than the larks June song
Is the small voice of the robin,
That sits and sings on a lonely grave
While winter winds go sobbin’
October’s dirge for the dead brown leaves,
Or the sad song of the sea –
Such songs of mourning suit mourners best –
Sad songs are the songs for me.

O’ sing of the sorrows of the Gael –
The sorrows which I can share in;
And draw from your harp’s sweet-sounding strings
Pathetic airs of Eirinn.
For I’m a Gael, with a sad, sad heart;
So sing not your songs of glee;
Music of sorrow soothes sorrow best –
Sad songs are the songs for me.

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