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

    There are French fiddles and Jew’s harps
    Jazz dancers and jazz bands
    All sorts of foreign music
    Which comes from foreign lands.
    But to me the sweetest music
    To cheer a poor man’s cot
    Is the music that comes plumping
    From a boiling porridge pot.

    O Ireland reared some brave men
    When her oats fed brawn and brain
    One Paddy reared on porridge
    Could trounce two Englishmen,
    My money on the stirabout
    Grown on an Irish plot
    It sings the song that bubbles from
    A good oat porridge pot.

    Our Gaels fought England’s battles
    As history’s pages tell,
    When they charged with ripping bayonets
    Into the mouth of Hell.
    Now food’s shipped over oceans
    Tins, packets and what not,
    But I’d sacrafice the whole jing bang
    For porridge, cold or hot.

     

    Michael Mullin, ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’

    Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.