• Michael Mullins
  • Michael "The Bard" Mullin
  • "The Bard of Foremass"
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    Poems
    By A New-Made Grave

    I found an old man kneeling by a new-made mound;
    His hands clasped in an attitude of prayer;
    Silent and motionless; his head was bare;
    His snowy locks wind-blown. With sad eyes raised
    To the far sky, as one entranced by gazed.

    He seemed to see his loved one in the sky,
    So long he looked with rapt and eager eye.
    At last the streams of sorrow ‘gan to race
    Adown the care-made furrows of his face.

    Faster and faster fell the flood of tears
    Upon the new-made grave. Unto my ears
    Came heart-wrung sobs. Convulsed with grief he lay,
    And kissed and hugged the cold and lifeless clay.

    I turned away my head – I could not brook
    Upon a scene so sorrowful to look.
    When next I gazed upon the new-made mound,
    Gone was the mourner. Silence reigned around.

    . . . . . . . . . . . .

    I went and knelt upon the tear-wet sod,
    And offered up an earnest prayer to God
    For the mourned one, and for him whose deep grief.
    Found in that luxury of tears relief.

    MICHAEL MULLIN – ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’

    Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

    Blessed Oliver Plunket

    (MARTYRED JULY 1, 1681)

    Our martyred Primate! Dying for Faith and Ireland;
    Sealing thy sacred life with thy heart’s blood;
    Torn from the flock, held by the howling wolves.
    To-day thee we behold upon the scaffold,
    Surrounded, as thy Master was surrounded,
    By jeering foes; thy thin hands lifted in prayer
    And supplication for thy suffering land.
    Thy persecuted Faith, thy stricken flock –
    Aye even for thy foes prepared to slay thee.
    Above the cruel mob we see thee kneeling,
    Renouncing the world, the flesh and wickedness,
    Smiling in death’s face, gazing through gloom to God.
    While angels hasten from the highest heavens
    To snatch from enemies thy soul of love,
    And bear it in triumph to the Throne above.
    While English devils tear thee limb from limb
    O Blessed Oliver Plunket! We pray thee:
    Help the afflicted prelates, priests and people
    Of Eastern Europe, crushed by Russian hordes
    Urged on by Satan and by Stalin led;
    And pray that Ireland may aye remain
    True to the Faith for which thy blood was shed.

    MICHAEL MULLIN – ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
    Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

    Heaven on Earth

    ‘Tis sweet to walk at ease, or sit and dream,
    While the soft music of the crooning breeze
    Blends with the murmur of a singing stream,
    And songs of happy birds among the trees.

    And it is sweet to watch the setting sun
    Kissing the clouds of evening till they blush;
    Changing to glories all the vapours dun,
    With one grand sweep of His unrivalled brush.

    And yet the crowds go hurrying along,
    Deaf to this music, to this picture blind;
    Although they’ll never hear a sweeter song –
    Never a fairer Nature-picture find.

    Heaven is not distant: it is all around
    Benignant souls, blest with the gifted ear
    To mark earth’s heavenly harmonies of sound,
    And eye to see heaven manifested here.

    O, may my soul be ever sensitive
    To charms of sky and sea and flower and sod;
    And may the songs and grace of Nature give
    My soul fresh stimulus to soar to God.

    MICHAEL MULLIN – ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
    Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.