My favourite stream! once more I come
Along thy grassy banks to roam;
Into thy glassy tide to gaze
And dream of dear departed days.

Since first thy verdant banks I ranged
Changed is the world, and I am changed:
Bright looked the world and hopeful then –
‘Twill ne’er look so to me again.

Bright hopes buoyed up my youthful breast,
Sorrow was seldom then its guest:
The future sunny seemed and fair –
Ere I was introduced to care.

I hoped true love on me would smile,
I hoped to help my hapless isle –
With voice and pen much good to do
In the dear cause of Roisin Dhu.

To-day, dear stream, how do I stand?
Nought have I helped my native land;
Her foes too strong, too weak am I –
I can but think of her, and sigh.

In vain I’ve loved, I’ve toiled in vain;
What once gave pleasure now gives pain:
Of youth’s bright hopes now scarce a spark
Remains to light me in the dark.

Dear stream! if fate still lets me rove
Along the verdant banks I love,
When dark the present looks I’ll flee
Back to the bygones, back to thee.

Michael Mullin

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

My native stream careers along
By holms of grass and fields of tillage,
It sings for me a rustic song
That ne’er was heard in town or village.

‘Tis very old in years, and yet
‘Tis very fresh and young and cheery;
It talks to me till I forget
The cares and work that made me weary.

I listen to the lowing herds,
The humming bees, the rippling river,
The sighing winds and singing birds –
O! I could listen on for ever.

The memory of a barefoot lad
Learning his lessons here I treasure.
I oft’ come here when I am sad.
I always come when I have leisure.

And  Oh! ‘twere sweet, life‘s labour done,
Retiring here, to end life’s even’ –
Fixing my faith in God alone
And centering all my hopes in Heaven.

Michael Mullin

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

O, little river running over pebbles!
Full many a tender mem’ry I recall,
While list’ning by your margin to your murmur,
And  watching brown leaves on your bosom fall.

There’s sweetness in the music of your making;
There’s solace in the stillness of your glen;
There’s beauty in yourself and your surroundings,
Unrivalled ‘mid the hives of hurried men.

The magic of your mirror leaves me gazing
Down on the flying clouds and azure sky.
Longtime I watch our forward running rapids,
Till backward up your course I seem to hie.

The crooning of November winds above you,
The murmur of your ripples at my feet,
The mingling of these melodies together
To a world-weary care-worn heart, how sweet!

Michael Mullin

‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.