Blame me not if I’m unworthy
Of the bards of Erin’s land-
Erin of the mighty poets,
Erin of the singers bland;
Erin of the lofty spirit,
Erin of the open hand.

Erin, Erin, ever woven
In the wistful exile dreams;
Erin of the songful woodlands,
Erin of the singing streams,
Erin of the Freedom lovers,
Erin of the Sunburst gleams.

Erin of the blessed Shamrock,
Erin of traditions quaint,
Erin of the great St. Patrick-
Land of many a glorious saint;
Erin racked with tortures; Erin
Where the Faith grew never faint.

I’m not worthy of thee, Erin!
But I’ll try to worthy be-
Worthy of thy saints and sages,
Of my sires who fought for thee.
May I yet be worthy of thee,
Fairest daughter of the sea.

MICHAEL MULLIN, ‘The Bard of Foremass’,
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

His soul was true to the noble mission
That his heart espoused in early youth.
He dreamed the Dream and he saw the Vision,
And steered his ship by the Star of Truth.

His genius shone like the sun new-risen,
Dispelling the darkness south and north.
The spirit of Freedom was bound in prison –
He smashed her fetters and brought her forth.

His song of love was soft appealing,
Delicate, fervent, undefiled.
His song to his land was grand and thrilling;
His song of battle was fierce and wild.

While the Blackwater with graceful motion
Glides in its beauty towards the sea.
O, Thomas Davis, with deep devotion
We’ll cherish the name and fame of thee!

Michael Mullin ‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.
First prize (10/-)

A star shone out o’er a land of night –
Davis o’er Eire shone –
A star of Knowledge, of Truth of Right;
The herald Star of Dawn.
With comet speed it passed away,
But it blazed a trail that showed
Through the black, black gloom of the year of doom,
The difficult narrow road.

Sweet dreams, fond thoughts to comfort us –
He left a priceless dower;
The Nation’s Poet who never dies;
Despots die by the hour.
He roused the slave from lethargy,
He set warm hearts aglow;
While tyrants laughed and traitors scoffed
At Davis, the despots’ foe.

Their Torch was he of the Gaels who marched,
With the flag of Truth unfurled.
With the love of love, in spite of spite,
To liberate their world.
Glory to Davis, the generous One,
The noble, the true, the wise;
Out of the dust of the brave and just,
Brave men and just arise.

Michael Mullin ‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.
First prize (10/-)