• Michael Mullins
  • Michael "The Bard" Mullin
  • "The Bard of Foremass"
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    In the boglands

    The ceannabhans around the boglands glance,
    And nod their white heads like old talking men;
    The light feet of the bogwinds gaily dance
    Across the heather hill and o’er the fen.

    The long-beaked curlews circle through the air,
    Their shrill notes cutting through the silence deep;
    The bonny moorcocks hasten on to where
    Brown moorhens guard upon their chickens keep.

    I wade knee-deep among the heather brown;
    I pause, and climb, and pause, and climb again –
    And as I stretch me on the mountain’s crown
    Sweet feelings fill my heart, sweet thoughts my brain.

    And now a bog-lark rises at my feet;
    It pauses, climbs, grows smaller, disappears:
    It bears away to God a message sweet –
    Too sweet a message for ungodly ears.

    I feel a strange sweet rapture in my heart,
    While strange sweet musings waft my soul abroad;
    I feel no longer of the world a part –
    While resting here upon this hill with God.

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