• Michael Mullins
  • Michael "The Bard" Mullin
  • "The Bard of Foremass"
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    Poems

    It blew into my garden,
    A breeze soft and mild;
    It chased away the chill
    Of a winter wild;
    And the pale faced snowdrops
    Looked up and smiled.

    On the bleak hill of Age
    I was walking alone
    When a tender recollection
    From boyhood flown
    Met me: – the bleakness
    Far away was blown.

    A kindly mem’ry travels
    A long long road –
    A lift, a gift, or a smile bestowed.
    Kindness is the key
    To joy’s abode.

    MICHAEL MULLIN, ‘The Bard of Foremass’,
    Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.
    Sent 17 Feb ‘47

    Sliding along the River of Time
    As we go day by day.
    A laugh or the lilt of a merry rhyme
    Will help to brighten the way.

    But when the River is wild and rough,
    And dangerous and dark,
    Enough it seems and more than enough.
    To pilot our fragile bark.

    These are the critical times of test:
    The coward will cringe and doubt –
    But strong stout hearts will be at their best
    When all seems down and out.

    Tis easy to sing when trouble free;
    Tis easy a smile to wear;
    Tis easy an optimist to be
    When all is smooth and fair.

    But here’s to the gallant lad who goes
    With a lilt and smile along,
    When the blizzard of misfortune blows
    And everything seems wrong.

    MICHAEL MULLIN, ‘The Bard of Foremass’,
    Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.
    Sent 28 Jan ‘47

    The Old Year dies to-night. With glee to-morrow
    We’ll see the New Year rise.
    But now we feel no joy; for we in sorrow
    Watch while the Old Year dies.

    Trees with uplifted arms, like priests, are praying
    For the departing one.
    Sadly the breeze on sylvan harps is playing
    For him whose race is run.

    We think of all the friends the year took from us;
    Of friends he sent our way;
    Of resolution kept, of broken promise:-
    We sigh and try to pray.

    He carried us along ‘mid pains and pleasures;
    Laden with gifts was he.
    Tonight we mourn inestimable treasures
    Squandered most recklessly.

    The glad, the sad, the dear old year is dying.
    In vain our sighs and tears.
    Oceans of teardrops, centuries of sighing
    Will not bring back dead years.

    MICHAEL MULLIN, ‘The Bard of Foremass’,
    Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.