I often keep thinking and thinking
Of the changes now everywhere;
While I’m dozing nodding and blinking
Sitting in my old armchair.
I know our inventors are clever –
To belittle them I would be slow,
But I wonder at times shall we ever
Be able to fly like a crow.
With big gander wings a brave bouchail
From his chimney top tried it one day,
He had luck – he came down in the dunghill;
T’was softer than pavement or clay.
Men can sit in their planes and go flying;
But that is a different show.
They will fly if they bravely keep trying
And take a few tips from the crow.
MICHAEL MULLIN ‘The Bard of Foremass
Foremas Lower, Sixmilecross.
We’ve songs that scare and songs that scoff
And songs that set us sighing
Now sing us one to make us laugh
And send waist buttons flying.
Since laughter cures a lot of ills,
Lets laugh till our sides get sore
Laughter is cheaper and better than pills
You buy in a chemist’s store.
We’ve tears enough in the world today
And fears enough in the offing
A whiff and a puff drive clouds away;
Give us a dose of laughing.
Tune your harp to the skylark’s lilt
For larks to heaven belong.
‘Tis useless crying o’er milk that’s spilt,
Sing us a merry song.
Sing for a change a song of joy
That tunes our grief to gladness
And a sad old man to a bright young boy,
We’re sick of songs of sadness.
MICHAEL MULLIN, ‘The Bard of Foremass,
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.
Footnote by P.D. : –
Some philosopher once said “I think therefore I am” – in my father’s case, “He wrote therefore He was”. These are some of the memories I have of the father I knew at home years ago and the father I renew through his poems today.
Sir Bee in the pursuit of honey,
While wand’ring o’er the lea,
Saw beautiful Miss Fairyfinger,
Whose sweet smile tempted him to linger,
And all unmindful of his duty,
Intoxicated by her beauty,
He flirted recklessly.
Into her dainty ear he murmured,
And loving things did say;
He kissed her on her lips so bonny,
She spread for him a feast of honey,
And she was happy with her lover;
But ah! Sir Bee was still a rover –
He laughed and flew away.
Friends, when you blame Sir Bee, remember
His imitators, too.
When heave your tender hearts with pity
For this poor maid so sweet and pretty,
Remember she is not the only
Confiding flow’r left sad and lonely
By those who should be true.