• Michael Mullins
  • Michael "The Bard" Mullin
  • "The Bard of Foremass"
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    Song of a Foremass Farmer

    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.