I walk the sleepy valley; while the dew
Like sleep on weary eyelids, softly falls.
There is no sound – save corncrakes calling to
Corncrakes that, echo-like, repeat the calls.

The day-god sinking to repose calls home
His truant beams, that fain would linger on;
But they must go to gild yon western dome,
And limn the east with glories of the dawn.

The blue peat smoke trails lazily away
O’er trees and fields from lime-washed chimney tops.
Slow moving farmers placidly survey
Their light green corn, dark green potato crops.

Fat, dull-eyed cattle stretched upon the grass
Seem almost too content to ruminate;
They hardly notice me as on I pass,
Picking my steps, through hoof-tracks, to the gate.

And here’s the river; crooning a hush song
To sleepy meadows – like a mother fond
Lulling her babe. Ah! who for worlds would long
The sleepy valley’s cradling hills beyond?

Michael Mullin
‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

Limn – to paint

I love a sweet wee valley
Which kindly mountains hide;
I love the little river
Whose waters through it glide.
I would not leave this valley
For scenes divinely fair.
An old tree, deeply rooted
You can’t transplant elsewhere.

Peaceful and sweet and lovely
The valley round me lies;
And low and soft and soothing
The river’s murmurs rise.

I  wearied in the city
I tired of city throngs
Who never saw my river
And never heard its songs.
But here I weary never
And never wish to part
For the murmur of the river
Makes music in my heart.

Michael Mullin

‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

Sent to Dublin and Cork on 26 Oct 55

Oh! God be with the good old day’s
I spent upon the Foremass braes,
When youth was mine, and bare light feet
Scudded along in cold and heat.

In age our troubles fast approach,
Come pleasures in a slower coach
Fondly the eye of age looks back
O’er childhood’s far receding track.

I long to roam those braes again,
I long to stroll down Caldra glen
Where bossomed gorse, in green and gold
Exhibit beauties manifold.

O! sweet and pure, O pure and sweet
With scent of hay and breath of peat
On Carrickascapple soft winds blew –
When joys were rife and cares were few.

Cracrawee’s crown, lone ‘Sceog Bush’
Drumshambo graveyard  – how they rush
Back to my mind with memories dear
That claim a smile, or crave a tear.

In Foremass, happy homes I knew,
And bouchails brave and cailins true
But many a sad heart now is there,
And lonely hearth and vacant chair.

I wish to see old Foremass braes,
And tread them as in former days –
Oh, futile wishes, wishes vain!
I’ll ne’er see Foremass  braes again.

Michael Mullin

‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.