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

    What makes me love my Mary?
    Tis not mere outward grace
    For I have gazed on girls as fair
    Of figure and of face.
    And while I did admire them much
    My heart with love they failed to touch.

    What makes me love my Mary?
    What is her special charm?
    Do dresses fine with gems combine
    To take my heart by storm?
    No: deep impressions on my heart
    Are made by neither gems, nor art.

    What makes me love my Mary
    With fond fidelity?
    I only know I love her so –
    The same as she loves me
    And I suspect ‘twas God’s design
    That I’d be hers, and she’d be mine.

    You are my flower of flowers,
    Cushla machree!
    Light of my darkest hours,
    Cushla machree!
    You are my spirit’s bright
    Sunbeams that banish night;
    You are my heart’s delight,
    Cushla machree!

    You are my golden mine,
    Cushla machree!
    You are my jewels fine,
    Cushla machree!
    You are my harp in tune,
    You are my rose in June,
    You are my sun at noon,
    Cushla machree!

    You, my first love of youth,
    Cushla machree!
    Still are my star of truth,
    Cushla machree!
    Sharing my heavy load,
    Smoothing my rugged road,
    Cheering our poor abode,
    Cushla machree!

    Life’s sea at times looked dark,
    Cushla machree!
    Storms sometimes struck the bark,
    Cushla machree!
    Love’s lighthouse – you again
    Made bright the darkened main –
    Home you made home-like then,
    Cushla machree!

    Glory, fame – great they are,
    Cushla machree!
    But love is greater far,
    Cushla machree!
    Greater than hope or faith –
    Stronger than mighty death;
    True love is heaven’s breath,
    Cushla machree!

    June! And the fields all basking in the heat!
    June! With its flowers and blossoms sweet!
    Cloud ships above, their shadows sail below;
    And streams kiss banks where willows grow.

    Where willows grow and stately poplars stand
    I walk and listen to the music bland –
    The ripple of the river, the wind’s croon,
    That so remind me of another June.

    A June when I was full of sanguine hopes
    That nerved me to attempt the rugged slopes
    That rose ahead, and every obstacle
    Standing between me and ambition’s hill.

    Thank God for the dear face and sweeter smile
    That nerved me most, and shortened every mile.
    Still high above me towers ambition’s hill;
    Yet glad am I – my love is with me still.