The leaves are flying – it is near October;
The corn is gathered and the turf all home.
The trees are sighing – it is near October,
And wild geese calling as afar they roam.
The nights are dismal and the days are dreary,
The fog is heavy and the winds are cold –
Cold heralds of the coming Winter weary –
The pleasant story of the Summer’s told.
Life’s year is flying – we are near October;
Our flow’rs are fading and our locks go grey.
Our hearts are sighing – we are near October;
Like wild geese flying are our thoughts away.
Like leaves in Autumn have our young hopes perished;
Our only pleasure is in turning back
And dreaming over all the dreams we cherished,
And in retracting the old beaten track.
Pale ghosts are flying as we near October –
This ghost of visionary hopes of yore;
Pale ghosts are sighing as we near October
Of friends we used to see, but see no more.
O sad, sweet memories! O leaves low lying,
Down-troden; neath the march of modern times;
Dear old-time echoes, ‘mid the breezes’ sighing.
Still haunt me to the last like old school rhymes.
MICHAEL MULLIN, ‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.