Your  absent ones have heard the call,
And sped to you across the foam;
O Eirinn, Eirinn give then all
A hearty welcome home!

Ye groves! that stand so still and grave,
While Summer bids you all adieu –
Smile dreamily, and kindly wave
A welcome to them, too.

Through vistas, lovely and sublime,
Let gentle fays their footsteps guide;
And slow them that their native clime
Has much in which to pride.

Ye merry streams! that dance along
By scented meads, and ripening grain,
Soothe the sad exiles with your song,
And make them glad again.

Winds! pure and sweet, by vale and hill,
Enfold them in a fond embrace.
Their faces kiss, O Sun! until
Roses the lilies chase.

Ye skies that roof our em’rald vales!
Be lavish of your charms awhile.
O Dawn and Sunset! show these Gaels
A mother’s welcome smile.

(3rd verse – fays – fairies)

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

My love lived near Knockmanny;
Though but a poor man’s son,
He was noble and kind-hearted –
His home a happy one.
He tilled his father’s acres,
And his heart was light and gay,
Till o’er the foam began to roam
His thoughts from home away.

I, too, lived near Knockmanny;
Much wealth my parents had;
I was their only daughter,
And I was seldom sad,
Till my father sternly told me
I must cease my love to see –
Because he was a poor man
And not a match for me.

His home beside Knockmanny
My love soon left behind;
He left me sad and lonely,
He left his parents kind.
He told me; “I’ll come back dear,
When the yellow gold I’ve won;
And then perhaps your father
Will not scorn a poor man’s son.”

O! beautiful Knockmanny
The years may come and go;
But round thee still shall linger
Fond dreams of long ago.
Thy emerald crown and wooded sides
Recall to me the day
When love first thrilled my young heart,
For him who went away.

O! beautiful Knockmanny,
Romantic storied hill,
Thy sylvan sides and silent ways
I love to wander still;
Where oft with me he listened
To the song-birds in the trees,
And that sad, yet pleasing, music
The sighing of the breeze.

Knockmanny O! Knockmanny,
Now be a friend to me ;
For my poor heart is broken
I want thy sympathy.
My love will come back never
My love no more will tread
Thy sylvan sides and silent paths
For, oh! my love is dead.

Knockmanny O! Knockmanny,
It was for me he died –
It was for me he went from thee,
And crossed the ocean wide.
Oh! cursed wealth, I hate thee;
Oh! why are people proud
Does Death heed wealth or titles,
Or put pockets in the shroud?

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

Only a bit of broken delph, that lay
Upon a New York street! his eye it caught,
It stirred a memory of far away –
And so the piece of rubbish home he brought.

Now in his room, he holds it in his hand.
The room, the city vanish off afar;
He sees once more his native Irish land –
To Gaels in exile still the guiding star.

He sees a cottage, where the firelight glows,
Upon a dresser with its shining delph;
His mother’s there, arranging in their rows
Dishes and plates, each in its proper shelf.

Beside her stands a curly-headed lad,
Who questions her about a side-dish old
“Why does the sight of it make you so sad?
Why won’t you part with it for lots of gold?”

“Ah! child, that dish was to my mother dear;
And for her sake ‘tis very dear to me.
I brought it, when your father brought me here;
It wakens many a sad sweet memory.”

The exile stirs – the tender vision flies;
In his own flat again he finds himself.
The city grips him; tears are in his eyes,
And in his hand a bit of broken delph.

–

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

(P.D. thinks Michael wrote this poem from the point of view of his cousin {Pat Mullin – of the bushes} who emigrated to New York or Frank Mullin {California} who also went to New York – a friend but no relation. A grandson of Frank Mullin was a member of the famous ‘Globetrotters’ Basketball team in New York. He was the only white man in the team.