I love my little Foremass farm,
    It’s fences, fields and gardens snug,
Which Foremass hill’s protecting arm
    Holds in a warm maternal hug:
I love it – and the cottage neat
    Where all my pains and pleasures meet.

It is not that this farm of mine
    Has richness in a high degree;
Nor is it that my cot is fine
    And fair, like castles you may see:
I love this quiet place because
It is my home, and ever was.

I love this farm when spring comes round;
    When pastures all are daisy-starred;
When gorse with gleaming gold is crowned;
    When every bird becomes a bard;
When every tree becomes a lyre;
And every grove becomes a choir.

I love my little Foremass farm
    In autumn, when the golden grain
Is waiting for my sturdy arm
    To swing the trusty sythe again.
I love the fields till labours tire –
And then I love the blazing fire.

I love my little cot and farm
For sake of all the dear ones there –
The patient wife with welcome warm,
The children clustered round my chair,
My mother – and for all the rest
Who’ve vanished from the old home nest.

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

From Foremass Hill, as Sol sinks down to rest,
I watch that artist brightening up the west,
A pleasing landscape now before me lies –
First, fields of different shape and hue and size;
Then valleys, hills, more valleys, mountains tall,
Remoter loftier mountains over all.
A neighbouring ploughman on a neighbouring height
Above the skyline shows, then sinks from sight;
A cailin calls “Wheet wheet which means “Come back”,
To wandering ducks, and they reply “Quack quack”
The plundering magpies and marauding crows,
Their day’s raids o’er, retire to their repose,
An optimistic thrush its vesper ends,
A blackbird’s whistle with a bouchaill’s blends.
A farm cart rattles o’er a rugged way,
Wee silver-tongued redbreast concludes its lay.
A west wind blows from each chief chimney stack
Of every home, a blue smoke banner back –
I think of West-bound ships and Gaels who roam;
Oh, Eire you are poor – but you are home.

–

MICHAEL MULLIN

‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE

Old Winter’s heavy breathing
For a short time has ceased;
And the lull – though a wee thing –
Is hailed by bird and beast.

And gentle zephyrs, crooning
Where smiling sunbeams tread,
With tender touch are tuning
The sylvan harps o’erhead.

The Shamrock woos the Daisy
So fair, and sweet, and chaste;
Her blushes drive him crazy;
He clasps her slender waist.

A blackbird sits inspecting
The labours of a thrush
Engaged in house erecting
Within a hawthorn bush.

Then weary with its labour,
This toiler sings sweet songs
To please a pretty neighbour
To whom its heart belongs.

I dream the winter’s over –
Although I know I’m wrong –
While list’ning to this lover,
That shrines its love in song.

–

MICHAEL MULLIN

‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE