‘Twill soon be spring in Uladh:
But I shall not be near
To hear cuckoos declaring
The name they’re proudly wearing
A name to children dear.

O happy cuckoo tourists!
          I exiled, envy you
Your trips through dell and valley
          Where, a child, I used to dally
Hoping to hear “Coo-coo”.

 I’ve been so long from Uladh
I fear when I return
I’ll seek in vain old faces
Of old friends in old places
          The friends for whom I yearn.

I fear I’ll be forgotten
By all except a few
On entering every dwelling
I’ll cuckoo-like be telling
          My name to neighbours new.

MICHAEL MULLIN, ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS,
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross. Co. Tyrone.
Dublin and Cork
8th March ‘59

Why do thy leaves, O Beech, cling on?
When leaves of other trees have gone –
Gone to the dust, gone to their tomb,
‘Mid winter wrath, and autumn gloom.

Thy dead leaves wave like golden shields
O’er straw-roofed cots and snow-clad fields;
Defying rain and hail and frost –
Buffeted, torn, and tempest-tost.

Methinks that Love – the Love of mother,
Love of father, sister, brother –
Of each for all, and all for each,
Lives in thy bosom, gentle Beech!

Love which the God of Love has given,
That Love which binds the earth and heaven,
Abideth in no small degree
Among thy branches, leaves, and thee.

Even in death thy leaves remain
To shield thee from the hurricane –
Thou canst not bear to let them go –
Even in death – thou lovest so.

–

Michael Mullin

‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.

In the lone woodland, where no song of bird
Breaks the deep calm; where Nature seems at prayer;
Where your low tranquil breathing is but heard –
I’ll seek you there:

I’ll seek you there; and with you  wander through
Dim sylvan paths, like lovers hand in hand;
While bows the wood’s great spirit, passive to
Your mute command.

When summer comes the woods wave banners green;
But Summer’s gone, and you reign in his stead;
And soon your colours only will be seen –
Gold, brown and red.

We’ll roam where fields of undulating corn
Put on the golden symbol of your rule.
With you for monitor I’ll strive to learn
In Nature’s school.

In the lone woodland ways, in the dim light,
Each fading leaf will be a sermon deep.
O, teach me, then, to read my lesson right,
And wisely reap.

Michael Mullin

‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.