• Michael Mullins
  • Michael "The Bard" Mullin
  • "The Bard of Foremass"
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    The guerdon of my spring work I behold-
    Fields of ripe grain that bends to autumn’s blast –
    Wavelets of gold upon a sea of gold;
    The hoped-for harvest time has come at last.

    Shine down O Sun! upon the gleaming blade
    With which the swathes of yellow corn I reap.
    And breezes blow: I count upon your aid
    To bend the stalks I gather at each sweep.

    Peat smoke curls gracefully above the trees;
    The sunbeams gleam on many a window –pane;
    Sweet is the music that the autumn breeze
    Plays on the tree-harps and the reeds of grain.

    The sun’s now painting pictures in the West
    (Our harvest sunsets are a treat to see),
    The weary wind has rocked itself to rest;
    And shadows gather o’er the stooks and me.

    Silence and night! I gaze a little while
    On far dim stars and the moon’s placid face,
    Until I fancy I behold the smile
    Of happy angels round the Queen of Grace.

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