To Foremass far o’er the billows lying,
Like homing birds my dreams are flying,
And this lonely heart is ever sighing
For its fields far away,
For Foremass dreaming among its bushes,
The haunt of tuneful larks and thrushes,
Linnets and blackbirds. Oh! If wishes
Had wings, I’d fly to-day.

I long for the winding watercourses
That call the rills from their hilly sources;
I long for fields where the golden gorse is,
And the sweet-smelling hay;
For Foremass meadows where lambs are bounding;
For its groves with sylvan harps sweet-sounding
And cots with shady trees surrounding,
And the home of childhood gay.

To Foremass, set in a halo pleasant
Of visions past, that light the present,
Soon would the long, long leagues be lessened
If I could fly to-day.
To Foremass music, and Foremass flowers,
To Foremass sunshine, and Foremass showers,
To the balm and calm of Foremass bowers
Over the waves away.

Michael Mullin ‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co Tyrone.

Only a wreath of shamrocks,
Dewy and fresh and green,
Plucked by an Irish mother,
Adown an old boreen.
Tenderly, gently, slowly,
While her warm tears water them,
She packs them with love – pure mother love;
Then send them away o’er the waves to rove;
With a blessing on leaf and stem.

Only a wreath of shamrocks –
Crushed stems and faded leaves –
Which an exiled Irish daughter
With trembling hands receives.
How she kissed the withered shamrocks,
And held them to her heart!
The stranger may not understand
They are of her faith, and her native land,
And her own mother a part.

–

Michael Mullin ‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co Tyrone.

I know that soft zephyrs now play
In an orchard where apple trees bloom
And peep through the panes of the window
Of a neat little, sweet little room,
A room with a bed in one corner,
Half hidden by curtains o’erhung –
‘Twas there that I slept the sweet slumber
Of innocence when I was young.

Soft winds of remembrance are blowing
Their fond recollections to me
Of that little cottage and orchard
In Ireland far over the sea.
I guess a bed’s still in that corner,
I know that the apple trees bloom;
But the old place has passed into new hands:
I’ll never more sleep in that room.

Yet often when soft winds are playing
Sweet music in orchards abloom,
In dreams I’ll tip-toe to the window
Of a neat little, sweet little room.
And I’ll vision a bed and a table
In a corner with curtains o’erhung:
‘Tis thus, though a man disillusioned,
I’ll dream the dear dreams of the young.

–

Michael Mullin ‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co Tyrone.

Michael himself had written – ‘I like it’ at this poem on his list.