When Spring has spread a flow’r-embellished carpet
For the wee lambs to stray on,
And decked with green leaves and with lovely blossoms
The harps the zephyrs play on,
And raised up sunbeam stairs to make it pleasant
For the skylark’s soaring –
‘Tis sweet with God to walk the fields of Foremass,
Admiring and adoring.

‘Tis sweet to walk along the Foremass river,
Beside the swaying sallies;
To hurry where the river’s in a hurry,
And dally where it dallies.
And while I hear the harmony of music,
And feast my eyes on beauty,
It is not toil to thank the great Creator –
But a most pleasing duty.

I thank Thee, God, for this calm, pleasant haven,
And the bright sky above me;
I thank Thee for the Spring, that helps my spirit,
To feel the goodness of Thee.
I thank Thee for these songs, that are an echo
Of Thine own accent’s sweetness,
And for these charms, which are a weak reflection
Of Thy subline completeness.

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

I know that soft zephyrs now play
In an orchard where apple trees bloom
And peep through the panes of the window
Of a neat little, sweet little room,
A room with a bed in one corner,
Half hidden by curtains o’erhung –
‘Twas there that I slept the sweet slumber
Of innocence when I was young.

Soft winds of remembrance are blowing
Their fond recollections to me
Of that little cottage and orchard
In Ireland far over the sea.
I guess a bed’s still in that corner,
I know that the apple trees bloom;
But the old place has passed into new hands:
I’ll never more sleep in that room.

Yet often when soft winds are playing
Sweet music in orchards abloom,
In dreams I’ll tip-toe to the window
Of a neat little, sweet little room.
And I’ll vision a bed and a table
In a corner with curtains o’erhung:
‘Tis thus, though a man disillusioned,
I’ll dream the dear dreams of the young.

–

Michael Mullin ‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co Tyrone.

Michael himself had written – ‘I like it’ at this poem on his list.

I hear a wee  bird sing
Upon a budding bough;
I feel the breath of Spring
Like balm upon my brow;
Lark-like, my heart on wing
Sings the song of the plough.

O, thrush! O, joyous thrush!
Fain would I ask of you
What makes the glad notes gush,
Spontaneous and true?
Far from your hawthorn bush
Sail Care and all her crew.

I hear the lambkin bleat;
I see it now at play;
Wow! horses, wow!!! ‘tis sweet
To watch its frolics gay.
While shade and sunshine fleet
Race over Foremass brae.

Dear feathered friends of mine!
Your gladness makes me glad;
Your melodies divine
Make me once more a lad,
Herding my father’s kine –
Ere sorrows made me sad.

I hear a wee bird sing;
A daisy’s smile I see;
I feel the kiss of Spring –
She trips along with me;
While I am following
My plough along the lea.

Michael Mullin

‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.