Just a common ploughman
Out on Foremass brae –
Just a common ploughman,
Ploughing day by day.

Yet he is as happy
As the day is long;
Whistling you may hear him,
Or singing a song

He reins in his horses –
Down the hill go they;
He reins in his horses –
Then up, up the brae.

Marching, ever marching
In the furrow brown,
Rolling up the brown earth,
The green rolling down.

Right above the cabin
Where his dear ones bide
(White washed walls are pretty
‘Gainst a green the hillside).

He can see his youngsters
Roll and jump and race,
Merry as the lambs on
The sloping brae’s face.

Hard his hands, yet tender
The heart in his breast –
The ploughman that carols,
Lark-like o’er his nest.

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

‘Tis nice to be ploughing in the open fields,
When the crows go flapping by,
And thrushes sing their matins to the morn
In the budding hawthorns nigh;
When winds are tugging at the dead beech leaves
As they swing their shining shields –
‘Tis pleasant to be out with the horses here,
Ploughing in the Foremass fields.

When the land is full of the promise of Spring,
And the gold is showing on the gorse
When daisies are peeping, and the sun shining
Down on man and horse;
Though strength and health are the total of our wealth,
Though our feet are heavy with clay,
Our gaiety of heart finds vent in song –
Ploughing on a Foremass brae.

But it’s not all sunshine on the Foremass hills;
When the hailstones hop, and the sleet
Sweeps down from the big white back of Mullagharn,
Ploughing isn’t then a treat;
There’s a tightening of reins, a slackening of chains,
And a shout to the horses – “Whoa!”
We’re thankful for what shelter we can get
By this hedge where the high whins grow.

But the sun is sloping to the West away,
And the blackbirds getting into tune;
We would linger longer but the day’s too short –
Yonder is the ghost of a moon;
We must keep moving while there’s light to see;
If we don’t plough now, you know
(Let the sun be shining or the rain be falling)
In Autumn we shall not mow.

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

Whether ploughin’ pays or pays not,
‘Tis a joy to me
To be marchin’, marchin’, marchin’
Over fields of lea,
Followin’ a swing plough that is
Set as it should be.

Now, we’ve many ploughs new-fashioned –
Chills, an’ all the rest –
But ‘mong ploughmen that are ploughmen,
None can stand the test
Like the good old, clean old swing plough,
Trustiest an’ best.

Still, as times goes forward rollin’
Change will follow change;
Newer, stranger styles succeeding
Methods new and strange.
Labour-saving, labour-killing
Men will onward range.

Let them range, while I go marchin’,
Marchin’ up and down;
Listnin’ to the music that was
Never heard in town;
Rollin’ down the verdant ribbons,
Raisin combs of brown.

Cool and clean and sweet the breezes
Blow upon my brow;
Many a bird is singin’ up on
Many a buddin’ bough,
And the heart within me’s singin’
To my team an’ plough.

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