O April showers! softly fall.
O April airs! caress the flowers.
O April sun! smile down on all
This land of ours.

Wild birds are wooing now.  Their words
Are in a language strange to me.
Could I translate love-songs of birds
How blest I’d be!

Now is the time when farmers sow;
They set the seeds beneath the sod –
Strong in their trust that crops will grow –
Their trust in God.

Wind-driven cloud-ships sail above;
Below their shadows swiftly pass.
Over the tillage fields they move,
Over the grass.

And at their passing as I gaze
I think how like this life of ours
Is April with its changeful days
Of sun and showers!

O April with its smiles and tears!
Ah April with its sun and rain!
O joys and sorrows of the years –
Pleasure and pain.

Michael Mullin
‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

The April sun comes smiling after showers;
The clouds fly, and the valley fills with flowers;
The birds sing, and the one-time timid buds
Are clapping baby hands in all the woods.

Gold on the gorse, and silver on the brook,
And brown bees buzzing in each sunny nook:
Who says we’re poor, with so much wealth around?
If heav’n’s like this, it is a happy ground.

I walk ‘mong fields where I have laboured long
To plant the little seeds fit mould among.
And now I see the corn-spears pierce the clod,
While my heart fills with gratitude to God.

Men may be cruel, and the times be bad –
Yet much have I for which my heart is glad:
God’s helping Hand, the Beauty of His Face –
The springing crops, the valley’s April grace.

Michael Mullin
‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

Here in this garden old; here where the rush
And din of city traffic ne’er intrude;
Here where spring winds on budding tree and bush
Play fitting strains for such a solitude:

Here it is sweet to let my drifting dreams
Blend with the lark’s song and the thrush’s lay,
Blend with the melodies of rippling streams
That wind by meads where merry lamb-kins play.

With joy these pretty little flowers smile;
With joy these tender little buds expand;
With joy these grateful birds now sing, and toil
To make their future dwellings snug and grand.

The happiness of springtime drives away
The winter’s nightmare.  O! ‘tis sweet to hide
A little while, from cares and toils of day,
Within this garden old at eventide.

Not oft’ the busy world permits its slaves
To taste the joys of such a place as this –
This place for which the God-like spirit craves:
Because it holds God’s peace and heaven’s bliss.

Michael Mullin
‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.