I pillow on this mountain’s breast my head.
As a child seeks its mother I have sought
This place of sweet repose; by pathways dread,
By thoroughfares with care and danger fraught.
I thank you, Bog-lark! For that song divine;
It trills me , while it humbles foolish pride
In my own songs. O, what are songs of mine
To songs of bog larks on a mountain side.
Through the deep summer silence breaks the scream
Of curlews, and the cackling of moor-hens,
After the cities’ din, ‘tis sweet to dream
Below that blue sky, and above those fens.
This mountain wind comes odorous and cool,
From distant valleys, over heather brown,
Across vast spaces. This is beautiful
To one long prisoned in a crowded town.
My spirit cramped within its cage of clay,
Soars with yon lark away to heaven above,
Larklike its offering of love to pay
To the Creator and the King of Love.
Michael Mullin ‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.