There’s a hill where the heather is growing,
And the white-headed ceanabhans nod;
Where the purest of breezes is blowing
The sweetest of perfumes abroad;
O! hill! where the curlews are screaming,
‘Tis long since I bade you good – bye.

There’s a glen where the green thorn is hiding
Beneath the white blossoms of June,
And a silvery streamlet is gliding
Along to a silvery tune;
O! glen of sweet-scented grasses!
That fall down the reaper before
O! glen of the hay-making lasses!
Shall ever I visit you more?

There’s a wood with a cot through it peeping,
There’s a garden where apple trees bloom,
And roses are shyly up-creeping
Towards a dear old-fashioned room;
O! well-beloved cottage and wildwood!
(O! rosy dreams withered and slain)
O! far away home of my childhood!
When, when shall I see you again?

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