I sing the song o’ the plough,
The thrush is singing his song:
He sits on a leafless bough,
But we go marching along.
Rolling the green sward o’er,
Turning the daisies down,
Green is the ground before,
Behind us it is brown.

Shadows race o’er the ground,
As clouds sail o’er the sky.
The crows are flying around;
But slowly, steadily I
To the time of my singing plough,
To the step of my horses march;
To the tune of breeze on bough
Of beech and thorn and larch.

I sing the song o’ the plough,
A song of love and hope;
The bird upon the bough;
Is bidding the bud to ope.
We also sing of pain
And sacrifice and faith,
Awakening life again
Out of the dust of death.

MICHAEL MULLIN ‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.