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.