Joy comes with Spring,
And  hearts beat high with hope,
When blithe birds sing,
And tender green leaves ope
On tree and bush.
Then, how the glad notes gush
From hearts were lately sad!
The blackbird and the thrush,
The linnet and the lark
With ecstasy are mad
From dawn of day till dark.

The streams rejoice
Betwixt their greening banks;
The willow’s voice
Is heard returning thanks;
The zephyr mild
Sports like a happy child
Across the daisied green,
All sweet and undefiled.
And the proud King of Day
Smiles on the vernal Queen,
And dries her tears away.

Hope comes with Spring
To spirits long opprest;
And joy-bells ring
In every human breast.
Love loudly knocks
At doors suspicion locks:
Through welcome doors that ope,
Right boldly in he walks,
With happiness, his bride –
O Love! O, Joy! O, Hope! –
All in the sweet spring-tide.

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

I hear a wee  bird sing
Upon a budding bough;
I feel the breath of Spring
Like balm upon my brow;
Lark-like, my heart on wing
Sings the song of the plough.

O, thrush! O, joyous thrush!
Fain would I ask of you
What makes the glad notes gush,
Spontaneous and true?
Far from your hawthorn bush
Sail Care and all her crew.

I hear the lambkin bleat;
I see it now at play;
Wow! horses, wow!!! ‘tis sweet
To watch its frolics gay.
While shade and sunshine fleet
Race over Foremass brae.

Dear feathered friends of mine!
Your gladness makes me glad;
Your melodies divine
Make me once more a lad,
Herding my father’s kine –
Ere sorrows made me sad.

I hear a wee bird sing;
A daisy’s smile I see;
I feel the kiss of Spring –
She trips along with me;
While I am following
My plough along the lea.

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.