Whene’er I dream of Foremass
Or of boyhood’s day,
I see whin bushes golden
Upon a grassy brae.
I see their cobweb curtains,
With the tear drops of night
Turned into gleaming jewels
By Morn’s hand –maidens bright.

I see an old whin fence there,
And a boy with a book –
A bashful, bare-legged boy there,
A-dreaming in a nook;
And happily up-gazing.
At cloud-ships sailing by,
And larks confiding secrets
Of the earth to the sky.

No matter where I wander,
The music of the wind
In the old whin bushes
Is ever in my mind.
The rill of childhood hastening
Boyhood’s brook to greet;
Made music like that music –
Soothing, soft, and sweet.

A dear old whin umbrella,
With green and golden crown;
And the wind whistling over;
And the rain dripping down.
On a little cow-herd dreaming
Upon an April day:
I see, in dreams of Foremass –
Foremass far away.

–

MICHAEL MULLIN

‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’

FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE

It carpets our mountains where ceannabhans grow,
It blooms in our valleys where bright rivers flow;
Where whistles the blackbird, where warbles the thrush,
‘Tis thriving – the prickly old Irish whin bush.

I loved it in youth; if I live to grow old
I’ll still love the whin and its blossoms of gold:
O tender and sweet are the mem’ries that rush
From my childhood’s shelter – an Irish whin bush.

As over life’s billows I steer my lone bark,
I dream of the days when, as blithe as a lark,
I raced with the rabbits, or mimicked the thrush
That sang as it perch’d on an Irish whin bush.

It sheltered the priest, ‘twas the patriot’s shield,
The outlawed hedge-master it often concealed;
The faith, lore, and freedom which tyrants would crush
Had still a stout friend in the Irish whin bush.

No wonder our exiles in lands far away
Oft dream of the gold on a whin-covered brae;
To come back to Erin their lonely heart’s wish,
And hear Irish winds in an Irish whin bush.

–

MICHAEL MULLIN

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

A flock of wee ducks strolled outside.
The hen that hatched them followed, and tried
To keep them safe and be their guide,
As the wee ducks waddled on.

They came to the brink of an old horse pool;
Where quacked a drake that spurned hen rule –
“I am your daddy – that hen’s a fool:
Come on, Web-toes! Come on.”

The poor hen wept till her eyes grew dim.
The wee ducks all enjoyed their swim
With daddy drake. They stayed with him
And bade the hen begone.

Poor old hen! Let me weep with you:
For my wee ducks – they left me too;
When they grew up away they flew,
And left me all alone.

–

MICHAEL MULLIN

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