Now when sunbeams bright are making
Diamonds of the dews of morn,
Now when sings the lark in heaven
And the thrush upon a thorn,
Barney gets the horses ready –
I prepare to sow the corn.

Mary knots the white sheet round me;
Brigid brings her buckets twain;
With the harrow on a barrow
Paddy hurries down the lane;
And behind him I come plodding,
On my back a bag of grain.

With my sheet of corn before me
How can I be sad or lorn,
While I hear the harrow rattling,
While the bucket-fulls are borne
To me as my sheet gets empty,
While I scatter showers of corn.

While the sun is shining o’er us,
And the cool winds round us blow,
While the merry birds are making
Music for us as we go,
While the blithesome lambs are bleating
In the fields where daisies grow –

Now when gold is on the whin tops,
Now when green is on the thorn,
Now when winter has departed,
Now when genial spring is born
(If it is not done already)
Now’s the time to sow the corn.

MICHAEL MULLIN ‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

I sing the song o’ the plough,
The thrush is singing his song:
He sits on a leafless bough,
But we go marching along.
Rolling the green sward o’er,
Turning the daisies down,
Green is the ground before,
Behind us it is brown.

Shadows race o’er the ground,
As clouds sail o’er the sky.
The crows are flying around;
But slowly, steadily I
To the time of my singing plough,
To the step of my horses march;
To the tune of breeze on bough
Of beech and thorn and larch.

I sing the song o’ the plough,
A song of love and hope;
The bird upon the bough;
Is bidding the bud to ope.
We also sing of pain
And sacrifice and faith,
Awakening life again
Out of the dust of death.

MICHAEL MULLIN ‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

I sing as I follow my plough,
Up hill and down I sing,
And perched on a beechen bough
Where last year’s dead leaves cling,
A robin is singing now
To me as I follow my plough –
And both of us dream of Spring.

I dream as I follow my plough –
Follow my plough and team;
I see some daisies now,
Some gold on gorse agleam,
Soft winds blow on my brow;
Of Spring, and I follow my plough –
That Spring is here, I dream.

I hope as I follow my plough –
But a doubt in my heart is stirred –
For buds on the beechen bough
To ope have not yet dared;
“Tis Spring,” says the wee bird now;
While a cloud creeps o’er my brow –
“Tis Spring,” says the happy bird.

While I follow my plough and team,
Don’t bid my dreams begone –
Foolish although they seem;
They help me t’wards the dawn.
Oft’ times a foolish dream
Becomes  a sunny beam
To poor men ploughing on.

MICHAEL MULLIN ‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.