Here comes the Bogwind, beautiful and free
(I love the Bogwind, the Bogwind loves me).
On Altamuskin heather hill we meet
With lovingest embrace and kisses sweet.
From Altamuskin hill-top I survey
The hills and plains unfurling far away;
To fair Belleek that overlooks the sea
A long road lies between Belleek and me.
Yet comes the Bogwind all that long long way
To keep her tryst on Altamuskin brae,
So pure and fresh from the Atlantic surf
To cheer me here while toiling at the turf.
The Bogwind trips sedately o’er the heather,
The while we talk the bygones o’er together;
She sings me beautiful and mystic songs –
Songs never sung amid the city throngs.
The Bogwind’s voice is wonderfully sweet,
It blends the call of curlew, and peeweet,
The moorhens cackle, and the boglank’s trill,
And ringing heather bells upon the hill.
Upon the Bogwind’s airy pinions borne,
Fast from the past fond memories return,
God bless the Bogwind, beautiful and free,
I love the Bogwind, the Bogwind loves me.
Michael Mullin ‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone