There is a field o’ergrown
With grass and greening rushes,
Afar in fair Tyrone,
Tyrone among the bushes.
A fairy field it is;
I know it is enchanted;
The proof of that is this –
By it I’m ever haunted.
A fence of thorn and whin
Provided a border stately
That lets no rude winds in;
Winds enter there sedately.
The sun, approving, peers
Over the hedge-top early;
And on a million spears
Night’s million tears grow pearly.
The bees from far away,
When they that field discover,
Speed there, nor brook delay –
As to his tryst the lover.
Beloved by feathered bards,
From near and far they hurry
To sing their kind regards;
Long, loath to leave, they tarry.
The dullest soul ‘twould rouse
To hear that Eden ringing,
When on a hundred boughs
A hundred bards are singing.
Few, few indeed could see
That field and fail to love it;
Oh! Hard the heart must be
If these charms could not move it.
–
MICHAEL MULLIN
‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE
September – sunset hour – stillness – repose!
Serene and sweet the day drew to its close,
Turning from toil, I lifted up my eyes
And gazed away towards the western skies –
A dappled dome, tranquil and high and vast,
With myriads of cloudlets overcast,
Then the thought struck me that a sky so rare
Should be fit canvas for a sunset fair.
The sun with his inimitable brush
Began to paint, the sky began to blush
Slowly at first his brush swept far and nigh,
And slowly bright hues swept across the sky.
Quickly bewildering glories were unrolled,
Till all the heaven blazed with dazzling gold,
Silver, and amethyst. I could but gaze
Upon the miracle with deep amaze.
Though many sunsets since that time have been,
One so magnificent has not been seen.
Hung high in heaven’s picture gallery,
‘Twas shown to all. How many chanced to see?
–
MICHAEL MULLIN
‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE
Pleasant it is to rest behind
A hedge on an autumn day
And list’ to the sweet things hedge and wind
To each other say.
Their sayings I cannot comprehend
Completely, nor in part;
But the autumn song of Irish wind
Is the song that soothes my heart.
Wind! What do you say as you go by
To the leaves that tremble so?
And what, O Trees! Is your reply
To the autumn winds that blow?
Oh, sad and solemn, yet sweet and kind
You come and you depart;
But the song you sing, O Autumn Wind!
Is the song that soothes my heart.
I love the song of the men who march
To fight for faith and home,
And the chime of bells that sink and swell
Round yon cathedral’s dome;
I listen to many a pleasant song
In city and crowded mart,
But the autumn breeze through Irish trees
Makes songs that soothe my heart.
–
MICHAEL MULLIN
‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE