• Michael Mullins
  • Michael "The Bard" Mullin
  • "The Bard of Foremass"
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    A cottage near Knockmanny
    Was the home of Kathaleen,
    A charming blue-eyed maiden,
    With the carriage of a queen.

    She was her father’s darling,
    And the sole joy of his hearth;
    And all the young men loved her –
    For she was the soul of mirth.

    How meek she looked and modest,
    Every time we saw her pass
    On Sundays with her father,
    Up the village street to Mass.

    On the brow of famed Knockmanny
    Many fair maids have I seen,
    From Errigal and Clogher;
    But none fair as Kathaleen.

    Sweet sings the thrush at evening,
    And the lark the dawn to greet
    But songs which Kathaleen sang
    Were a thousand times as sweet.

    Alas! with hearing wonders
    Of a fair land o’er the foam,
    A feverish longing seized her;
    To emigrate from home.

    Her friends strove to persuade her
    To remain at home – in vain,
    She said she’d leave this poor land,
    For that rich land o’er the main.

    She went – the tender blossom –
    From the bower of her birth;
    She went – and left her father
    With a sad and lonely hearth.

    Did Kathaleen return? Yes,
    Before two years had passed –
    But the tender flower had faded
    ‘Neath the friendless foreign blast.

    Up the village to the churchyard,
    (Just the way she used to go.)
    The lily of Knockmanny
    We bore, silent sad and slow.

    Her sorrow-stricken father
    Watched us deck her grave with green,
    And now in death he slumbers
    By the side of Kathaleen.