• Michael Mullins
  • Michael "The Bard" Mullin
  • "The Bard of Foremass"
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    Song of the grey-beards

    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.