Oft times I walk abroad,
At Autumn morn and even,
To view the works of God
Who made the earth and heaven.
And as I view
The heavens blue
Afar that stretches o’er me,
And fields of grain
On slope and plain
Extending forth before me;
I feel I should be meek
Of heart, of spirit lowly;
I see how man is weak,
How God is great and holy.

The leaves upon the trees,
The summer saw them blooming,
But autumn’s fading breeze
Their freshness is consuming;
Like fate unkind,
That autumn wind
Flings them to earth and spurns them,
From dust they came,
And to the same
Dame Nature now returns them;
These leaves to me recall
The fact – I should be humble;
We came from dust, and all
Of us to dust must crumble.

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

When Spring has spread a flow’r-embellished carpet
For the wee lambs to stray on,
And decked with green leaves and with lovely blossoms
The harps the zephyrs play on,
And raised up sunbeam stairs to make it pleasant
For the skylark’s soaring –
‘Tis sweet with God to walk the fields of Foremass,
Admiring and adoring.

‘Tis sweet to walk along the Foremass river,
Beside the swaying sallies;
To hurry where the river’s in a hurry,
And dally where it dallies.
And while I hear the harmony of music,
And feast my eyes on beauty,
It is not toil to thank the great Creator –
But a most pleasing duty.

I thank Thee, God, for this calm, pleasant haven,
And the bright sky above me;
I thank Thee for the Spring, that helps my spirit,
To feel the goodness of Thee.
I thank Thee for these songs, that are an echo
Of Thine own accent’s sweetness,
And for these charms, which are a weak reflection
Of Thy subline completeness.

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

O, thrush! Thy voice is silent now; no more
The air is thrilled with thy delicious lay.
The wind’s sad song is heard instead; and o’er
The land is gloom and desolation grey.
Adown in yonder glen I loved to list,
At evening, to thy joy begotten song;
Till smitten by thee – an enthusiast –
My dreams to Eden wafted me along.
The wind’s cold fingers on the branches bare
Now harp a melancholy dismal keen,
For the now silent songsters of the air,
The sunshine, and the glory, and the green.
O! thrush! What grief now fills thy once glad breast,
Out in the frost and snow and sleety rain!
Take heart, dear friend! By present woes opprest –
Remember that the spring will come again.

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