The Autumn day is drawing to a close.
The vale sinks softly, gently to repose,
Like a tired babe. The wind has fall’n asleep:
That wind which helped me all the day to reap
The golden corn.  I hear no song of bird;
The trees stand silent – not a leaf is stirred.
So deep the calm, I feel constrained to curb
My wayward steps, lest they the calm disturb.
Angels are lighting heaven’s lamps on high,
Still smiles the West at the sun’s last good-bye.
Night! And the moon o’er the dim hill appears;
Dimming with her pale rays remoter spheres.
Upward she moves, majestic and serene;
Queen of the night – indeed a glorious queen.
Now standing ‘mid the stooks of garnered corn,
Where reaping, I have passed the hours since morn.
Earth’s petty things recede; my soul takes flight;
And, soaring through the realms of the Night,
Sees in this picture spreading far and broad,
A part of the magnificence of God.
My heart, much moved by the sublime repose,
Tastes of the Peace which only God bestows;
Tastes of the joy which is in true accord
With what the Blessed feel before the Lord.

Michael Mullin
‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

Pretty little pansies!
With your velvet bonnets on,
Nodding to and fro.
Dreamy little fairies,
What are you think of?
What do you know?

Pretty little pansies!
I am not a flower still
I would love to know
Tender poet fancies,
Through your wise and solemn heads,
That come and go.

Pretty little pansies!
You are dreams of loveliness,
Ah, but Death has no
Pity for you, pansies!
Pretty though you be, alas!
Down, down you go

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

Behold the pretty daisy,
So simple and so sweet,
Which men so often trample,
Unnoticed, ‘neath their feet.
So humble and so modest,
It decks the grassy sod,
And greets its own dear Maker –
The Universal God.

But God-made man too often,
In pride and ignorance,
Admires his own perfections,
But looks on God’s askance;
Proud man! Blind man! Thy antics
The daisies blush to see;
They hang their heads in mourning
O God-like man! For thee.

Behold this little daisy!
Not all earth’s vaunted power,
Not all earth’s wise and great men
Could make this simple flower.
None could, save God, create it –
The daisy, shy and sweet,
Which men so often trample,
Unnoticed, ‘neath their feet.

Michael Mullin
‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.