A solemn hush has settled o’er the valleys
And the clean-bosomed hills. The air is still;
No whisper in the tree-tops, and no rustle
In corn down on the holms or up the hill.

The songbirds all are mute; days of abundance
Have made them lazy.  The cuckoo is gone.
The corncrake’s resting. But the restless river,
In the hush seeming louder, carols on.

Potatoes look pale blue, their spray fresh on them;
The meadows’ aftermath is soft and green;
The lea’s a –bloom with buttercup and clover;
The slow-maturing corn inclines to lean.

The sky is overcast with heavy vapours,
Suddenly a bewildering and blinding flash
Of lightning, like a glittering dagger, pierces
The stillness – followed by a fearful crash.

The dread artillery of God now rumbles
Faint in the distance. Lightings play among
Dark clouds and vanish.  The persistent river
Once more resumes its interrupted song.

–

MICHAEL MULLIN

‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE

From Foremass Hill, as Sol sinks down to rest,
I watch that artist brightening up the west,
A pleasing landscape now before me lies –
First, fields of different shape and hue and size;
Then valleys, hills, more valleys, mountains tall,
Remoter loftier mountains over all.
A neighbouring ploughman on a neighbouring height
Above the skyline shows, then sinks from sight;
A cailin calls “Wheet wheet which means “Come back”,
To wandering ducks, and they reply “Quack quack”
The plundering magpies and marauding crows,
Their day’s raids o’er, retire to their repose,
An optimistic thrush its vesper ends,
A blackbird’s whistle with a bouchaill’s blends.
A farm cart rattles o’er a rugged way,
Wee silver-tongued redbreast concludes its lay.
A west wind blows from each chief chimney stack
Of every home, a blue smoke banner back –
I think of West-bound ships and Gaels who roam;
Oh, Eire you are poor – but you are home.

–

MICHAEL MULLIN

‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE

Old Winter’s heavy breathing
For a short time has ceased;
And the lull – though a wee thing –
Is hailed by bird and beast.

And gentle zephyrs, crooning
Where smiling sunbeams tread,
With tender touch are tuning
The sylvan harps o’erhead.

The Shamrock woos the Daisy
So fair, and sweet, and chaste;
Her blushes drive him crazy;
He clasps her slender waist.

A blackbird sits inspecting
The labours of a thrush
Engaged in house erecting
Within a hawthorn bush.

Then weary with its labour,
This toiler sings sweet songs
To please a pretty neighbour
To whom its heart belongs.

I dream the winter’s over –
Although I know I’m wrong –
While list’ning to this lover,
That shrines its love in song.

–

MICHAEL MULLIN

‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE