Here in this garden old; here where the rush
And din of city traffic ne’er intrude;
Here where spring winds on budding tree and bush
Play fitting strains for such a solitude:

Here it is sweet to let my drifting dreams
Blend with the lark’s song and the thrush’s lay,
Blend with the melodies of rippling streams
That wind by meads where merry lamb-kins play.

With joy these pretty little flowers smile;
With joy these tender little buds expand;
With joy these grateful birds now sing, and toil
To make their future dwellings snug and grand.

The happiness of springtime drives away
The winter’s nightmare.  O! ‘tis sweet to hide
A little while, from cares and toils of day,
Within this garden old at eventide.

Not oft’ the busy world permits its slaves
To taste the joys of such a place as this –
This place for which the God-like spirit craves:
Because it holds God’s peace and heaven’s bliss.

Michael Mullin
‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.