I know a wee burn that sings for me
The happiest song that e’er was heard
Contentment, mirth, love and delight,
Like meal in porridge through it stirred.
It dances and laughs and leaps along
It shines in the sun like silver bright
And whins, with their crowns of gold stoop down
To list to its song of pure delight.
I know a wee thrush sits on a thorn
That grows by the bank of my wee burn
It is the blithest wee bard that ever
Sang a greeting to Spring’s return.
When tired of singing it loves to sit,
Like me, and list’ to the burn’s sweet song:-
The burn that never gets tired at all
But sings the whole day and whole night long.
Burn, bird, and bard-bard, bird and burn –
Rush on, O World: and leave us three
To cultivate our acquaintanceship.
And sing our little song of glee.
‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.
(In the newspaper cutting the address is given as Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Tipperary ! This was more than likely the Cork Examiner)