• Michael Mullins
  • Michael "The Bard" Mullin
  • "The Bard of Foremass"
  • Poem Banner
    Poems

    A wee wee woman, an’ a wee wee man;
    A wee wee pot , an’ a wee wee pan;
    A wee wee bonnet, an’ a wee wee hat;
    A wee wee dog, an’ a wee wee cat;
    A wee wee stool, an’ a wee wee chair;
    A wee wee bed for a wee wee pair;
    A wee wee table and wee wee delph
    On a wee wee dresser’s wee wee shelf;
    A wee wee horse an’ a wee wee cow;
    A wee wee churn an’ a wee wee plough.
    Though this wee pair had a wee wee purse
    They had God’s wee blissin’, and the divil’s wee curse.
    Of wee wee woes they’d a wee wee share,
    But wee wee joys had this wee wee pair.
    This wee wee woman, an’ this wee wee man
    With their wee wee cot, an’ their wee wee lan’,
    Had more wee joys in their wee wee life,
    Than a wee wee king, an’ his wee wee wife.

     

    Michael Mullin, ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’

    Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

    (Michael heard this sang in Belfast as a skipping song for children when he lived for a few months with his daughter Joan and Joe Duggan)

    We’ve heard of people waxing
    Enthusiastic and
    Admiring and applauding
    Some piece of music grand.
    We’ve heard about the sweetness
    Of ‘music of the wind’
    The rivers song; and Nature’s
    Orchestral strains combined:
    But what about the music –
    (All rhymers it forgot)
    The music bland that bubbles
    From the boiling ‘praties’ pot.

    Some folk think ‘praties bad food,
    In nutriment but weak;
    But I’ll engage a wager,
    The teapot’s  twisted beak
    Emits less healthy music,
    And sings to less fair maids –
    With lovely rose faces
    Beneath their modest plaids;
    Less Herculean ‘buacaills’
    Who’ve big broad shoulders got –
    Than does the music bubbling
    From the boiling ‘pratie’ pot.

    Pat’s rustic youngsters love it;
    Though wealth may mock its strains,
    It sings hope to some millions
    Of sturdy honest swains.
    Then may it sing for ever –
    This democratic song –
    And mingle with the crickets’,
    To cheer the Gael along.
    ‘Twould beat the best piano
    To liven up a cot –
    The music that’s emitted
    From the boiling ‘pratie’ pot.

    Michael Mullin, ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’

    Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

    There are French fiddles and Jew’s harps
    Jazz dancers and jazz bands
    All sorts of foreign music
    Which comes from foreign lands.
    But to me the sweetest music
    To cheer a poor man’s cot
    Is the music that comes plumping
    From a boiling porridge pot.

    O Ireland reared some brave men
    When her oats fed brawn and brain
    One Paddy reared on porridge
    Could trounce two Englishmen,
    My money on the stirabout
    Grown on an Irish plot
    It sings the song that bubbles from
    A good oat porridge pot.

    Our Gaels fought England’s battles
    As history’s pages tell,
    When they charged with ripping bayonets
    Into the mouth of Hell.
    Now food’s shipped over oceans
    Tins, packets and what not,
    But I’d sacrafice the whole jing bang
    For porridge, cold or hot.

     

    Michael Mullin, ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’

    Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.