• Michael Mullins
  • Michael "The Bard" Mullin
  • "The Bard of Foremass"
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    The Turfman’s song

    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