Say, Blackbird! What’s the secret of your singing?
Blithe hearld of the Spring!
Why are your songs with rapture ever ringing?
O, teach me thus to sing.

Think not ‘tis a presumptuous stranger merely,
Your confidence who woos;
Like you, I am a rustic bard sincerely
Devoted to the Muse.

My heart, like yours, with love of Erin burning
Pours out that love in song;
Like you I hail delightful Spring returning
Our fav’rite scenes among.

‘Mong your loved haunts I oft have been a ranger,
Pining your voice to hear,
Then think me not a too presumptuous stranger,
But deem me quest sincere.

Your songs are filled with wild spontaneous rapture –
O, teach me thus to sing;
Teach me the magic of your mirth to capture,
O, Poet of the Spring!

Sad notes come creeping in to tinge the gladness
Of e’en my brightest lay;
Alas! This world is full enough of sadness
Without sad songs to-day.

O, teach me, Blackbird! Till I banish sorrows
Out of the hearts of men;
And sweep away from Erin’s face all furrows,
And from her heart all pain.

Michael Mullin
‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

An August day is on its deathbed. Trees
Stand silent round, like mourners hushed in prayer.
No birds sing in the branches, and no breeze
Harps on them.  Heaven’s tears fall softly there.

          All work has ceased, and every tongue is dumb;
Fields, hills, and woods seem listening – intent,
Expectant, reverent, subdued – for some
Tremendous news or wonderful event.

Sweeps a lone curlew down from a far hill,
Across the plain, and with its plaintive cry
It stabs the silence.  All again is still –
No other sound – while Day sinks down to die.

The glowing sun low in the distant west
Illumes the deathbed with long golden rays:
Ere he withdraws, one last fond kiss is prest
Upon Day’s dark’ning brow – one last fond gaze.

The sun, now veiled in draperies of mist,
Makes all the west a rare magnificence
Of azure, silver, gold, and amethyst –
A crown of glory – dead Day’s recompense.

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

April sunshine, April showers,
April birds and April bees;
April of the opening flowers;
April, month of melodies!
Never do the fields look fresher,
Never do the bird-songs ring
With a truer, deeper pleasure
Than in this sweet month of spring.

Delicate and sweet and tender
Is the croon of April’s breeze,
To the corn-spears rising slender,
To the bushes, plants, and trees.
April’s joy the wild birds capture,
And enshrine in gladsome lays;
Bosoms thrill with rapture,
While they carol April’s praise.

April voices call me ever
To abandon desk and shop
For the green-banked shining river,
For the heath-clad mountain top.
April sunshine, April showers,
April birds, and April bees,
April of the opening flowers,
April, month of melodies.

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