O, little river running over pebbles!
Full many a tender mem’ry I recall,
While list’ning by your margin to your murmur,
And  watching brown leaves on your bosom fall.

There’s sweetness in the music of your making;
There’s solace in the stillness of your glen;
There’s beauty in yourself and your surroundings,
Unrivalled ‘mid the hives of hurried men.

The magic of your mirror leaves me gazing
Down on the flying clouds and azure sky.
Longtime I watch our forward running rapids,
Till backward up your course I seem to hie.

The crooning of November winds above you,
The murmur of your ripples at my feet,
The mingling of these melodies together
To a world-weary care-worn heart, how sweet!

Michael Mullin

‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.