I love my little Foremass farm,
    It’s fences, fields and gardens snug,
Which Foremass hill’s protecting arm
    Holds in a warm maternal hug:
I love it – and the cottage neat
    Where all my pains and pleasures meet.

It is not that this farm of mine
    Has richness in a high degree;
Nor is it that my cot is fine
    And fair, like castles you may see:
I love this quiet place because
It is my home, and ever was.

I love this farm when spring comes round;
    When pastures all are daisy-starred;
When gorse with gleaming gold is crowned;
    When every bird becomes a bard;
When every tree becomes a lyre;
And every grove becomes a choir.

I love my little Foremass farm
    In autumn, when the golden grain
Is waiting for my sturdy arm
    To swing the trusty sythe again.
I love the fields till labours tire –
And then I love the blazing fire.

I love my little cot and farm
For sake of all the dear ones there –
The patient wife with welcome warm,
The children clustered round my chair,
My mother – and for all the rest
Who’ve vanished from the old home nest.

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