The gorse has shed its golden bloom –
Its hour of triumph past. The broom
With fresh and gaudy flag unfurled
Smiles proudly o’er a smiling world.
Fortune has raised us, turf-men, up
O’er vales and towns; this mountain top,
So warm, so cool, so calm, so sweet
Is heaven. The world is at our feet.
The sun, unchallenged, reigns on high,
The bog winds pure and cool go by,
From hill to hill they dance along
To the sweet beat of their own song.
The ceannabhans nod heads of snow,
Like tired old men, as the winds blow.
The heather rustles, and the peat
Curl up and harden in the heat.
The moorcocks crow, the curlews cry,
A friendly cuckoo passes by.
All sounds here somehow harmonize
The deep calm over all that lies.
And now hurrah! A lark ascends –
God bless you, lark! my first of friends!
My song is ended; when larks sing
Wise men should do the listening.
Michael Mullin ‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone