I’m just a jolly ploughman
And my sweetheart’s the old swing.
I am not a whole-time ploughman,
For I finish up in spring.
Then I can sow and dig and mow
And I the flail can fling
And at the churn I take a turn –
And many another thing.

My father taught me how to plough,
The lark taught me to sing,
I’ve learned the blackbird’s whistle,
And the linnet’s lilt-i-ling.
The wild birds love my whistling;
And I love their carolling –
Their hymns of hope and joy and love
And many another thing.

I am a jolly ploughman
In the cot where I am king;
With the jolliest little wifie
That ever wore a ring.
She patches clothes and heels and toes;
The youngsters have their fling;
While I mend brogues for the little rogues –
And many another thing.

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

Joy comes with Spring
And  hearts beat high with hope,
When blithe birds sing
And tender green leaves ope
On tree and bush.
Then, how the glad notes gush
From hearts were lately sad!
The blackbird and the thrush,
The linnet and the lark
With ecstasy are mad
From dawn of day till dark.

The streams rejoice
Betwixt their greening banks;
The willow’s voice
Is heard returning thanks;
The zephyr mild
Sports like a happy child
Across the daisied green,
All sweet and undefiled.
And the proud King of Day
Smiles on the vernal Queen,
And dries her tears away.

Hope comes with Spring
To spirits long opprest;
And joy-bells ring
In every human breast.
Love loudly knocks
At doors suspicion locks:
Through welcome doors that ope,
Right boldly in he walks,
With happiness, his bride –
O Love! O, Joy! O, Hope! –
All in the sweet spring-tide.

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

‘Twas harvest time. A robin small
Perched on top twig of ash tree tall
Outside our door.  For days we heard
The broadcast of the little bird.

It sang thro mist. It sang thro rain
And in the sun it sang again,
Upgazing at it, perched so high
Silhouetted against the sky.

We thought it was a hopeful sign
That soon the weather would be fine,
Our thoughts were of corn beaten flat.
Its thoughts were of – I don’t know what.

The whole week long, day after day
It sang its song and said its say.
The rain went past, the mist went past,
The sun shone in clear skies at last.

And now when safe is all the corn
To robin, thanks let us return
For all the Aves offered up
To cheer us from the ash tree top.

Lets not forget while stacks we rope
The little harbinger of hope
That did its very best to cheer
When hopes were low and skies were drear.

MICHAEL MULLIN, ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’,
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Tyrone.