A dog met a cat and with scorn in his eye
He said “Little Puss! Can you answer me why
You roam here alone where big foes roam about
Does your father and mother not know you are out.”

Soon wild dogs and tame dogs and some not so tame
Came up the same way that the dog and cat came.
The dogs gave him lip and he answered them back.
And soon they got mixed in an awful attack,
The cat saw them coming and ran up a tree
The dog stood his ground for no coward was he.

They fought till they left him all covered with dirt,
And plaster with blood he was terribly hurt.
Then the cat left its tree slipping quietly home,
Resolved to be careful when tempted to roam.

Michael Mullin, ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

In an old, old cabin in an old, old glen,
Lived an old, old pair of four score ten.
This old, old woman and this old, old man,
Loved this old, old glen, where their life began;
And they loved the cot, with its old clay floor,
And it old mud walls, and its old, old door.
And its old, old roof with old straw thatched,
And it old, old beds with their old quilts patched.
Round their old, old house grew old, old trees,
Which made a shade from the cold, cold breeze.

This old, old pair, in their old, old days,
Still did their work in the old, old ways.
To the old, old Faith and the old, old Tongue
Of the old, old Land, the old folk clung.
On the old clay floor the old pair knelt,
With the old, old fervour of the old, old Celt;
On the old big beads which the old Gaels loved,
The old, old fingers of the old folk moved;
Their old, old voices the old house thrilled,
And their old, old hearts with fervour filled.
Thus this old, old woman and this old, old man
Still worshipped God in the old, old plan.

When the old-age pension to the old folk came,
The old parish priest backed up their claim,
And afterwards, this good old pair
Of good old times had a good old share.
And many a time by the old, old hearth,
On their old, old knees, on the cold, cold earth,
They offered up a warm old prayer
For good Lloyd George and all his care
This old, old woman and this old, old man,
From the old, old glen where their life began,
Were borne at last to cold, cold graves –
Where cold winds blow, and green grass waves
“May we all meet in heaven” is my good old prayer,
“With the good old souls of this good old pair”

Michael Mullin, ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

……………………………………………..

Footnote: Lloyd George – brought in the old age pension

I’m going to get married, I intend to change my life;
I’m going to get married – I am looking for a wife;
In fact I have been seeking one since I was seventeen –
But, oh! I’ve found it very hard to find the right colleen.

For when I’d find a pretty lass would suit me to a T,
I’d make the sad discovery she didn’t care for me;
And when I’d meet a girl I would not wed for any money,
That was the one would marry me – ah, Fate you’re very funny.

And when I’d wed a fair one that could milk and sew and wash,
I’d learn with disappointment deep that she was short of cash;
And when I’d meet a maiden sweet that was not short of pelf,
I’d find her tongue was rather long, proportioned to herself.

And some could ride on bicycles, buy could not milk a goat;
And some could play pianos, but they could not patch a coat.
And some could tell of wonders from Japan to Winnipeg,
But could not tell how long ‘twould take to hatch a turkey egg.

Oh! I was once as fine a boy as ever held a plough,
Or danced a jig or hornpipe – though you might not think it now.
But then I had no house or land, the maidens hearts to charm,
As now I have – and some would lose a man to gain a farm.

I am not old – just fifty, a little less or more;
Pat Burke says I am sixty. I was born the year before
His cousin was transported, in the cutting of the corn;
I guess that I can calculate the time that I was born.

I’m going to get married, I intend to change my life;
I’m going to get married – I am looking for a wife.
I hope you’ll wish me good luck, and my barrow give a shove –
I’m going to get married, not for money, but for love.

Michael Mullin, ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.