I know a wee burn that sings for me
The happiest song that e’er was heard
Contentment, mirth, love and delight,
Like meal in porridge through it stirred.

It dances and laughs and leaps along
It shines in the sun like silver bright
And whins, with their crowns of gold stoop down
To list to its song of pure delight.

I know a wee thrush sits on a thorn
That grows by the bank of my wee burn
It is the blithest wee bard that ever
Sang a greeting to Spring’s return.

When tired of singing it loves to sit,
Like me, and list’ to the burn’s sweet song:-
The burn that never gets tired at all
But sings the whole day and whole night long.

Burn, bird, and bard-bard, bird and burn –
Rush on, O World: and leave us three
To cultivate our acquaintanceship.
And sing our little song of glee.

Michael Mullin

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

(In the newspaper cutting the address is given as Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Tipperary !  This was more than likely the Cork Examiner)

Wee Burn! That passes by so near
My home, that I can sometimes hear
Thy feet go dancing on
Adown their rugged rocky way,
As they have done by night and day
Through all the ages gone.

In youth, to me ‘twas more than fun
To hear thee sing, to watch thee run.
Joy’s  chalice then I drank
While dreaming dreams of heroes bold,
Or trying men of clay to mould
From out thy blue-clay bank.

The men of clay I then designed,
And the child heroes of my mind
Like youthful days have gone:
Whilst thou, the youthfullest of rills,
And yet as ancient as the hills,
Still goest gaily on.

While generations come and go
Sing on! For God ordains it so;
Sing on, sing on, wee Burn!
While thy deep channel deeper wears
Still brighten hearts, and lighten cares,
And comfort souls that mourn.

Michael Mullin

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

Dreamy and tranquil, on this autumn eve,
Our little vale is held in the hill’s arms;
Like lovers in each other who believe,
They calmly wait the coming on of storms.

The sun, descending slowly to his rest,
Looks fondly back. From many a cottage pane
That peeps ‘neath leafy lashes to the West,
The reflex of his smile is flashed again.

Turf smoke is carried by the cooling breeze
From white-washed chimney-tops.  I rest upon
My scythe, and watch it curling o’er the trees,
Above each golden field and grassy lawn.

Laughter of children, cheerful talk of men
And women, the loud rattle of a cart,
The swish of scythes, the rustle of the grain
Mingle, and make music in my heart.

God  walks among His stooks in the dim light,
And listens to the rustling of His grain:
O, I’ll have much to thank Him for to-night –
Without His help my efforts all were vain.

Michael Mullin

‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.