Stones, corner stones, this old home’s bones
All else has gone to rot.
We too are dust, must turn to dust
Like it or like it not.

These trees grow on, the house has gone
Twas older than old men.
But older still yon nearby hill
And this vale and this glen.

Thrones have their day, they pass away
And mighty empires fall
Capitals flourish, capitals perish
The same fate waits them all.

The moon may cease to mirror light
The sun grow dark on high
And countless stars that shine at night
Grow dim, or fall, or die.

Yet deathless souls shall never die
Though souls from bodies sever
And God who made the earth and sky
That God shall reign for ever.

As rolls this changing world along
On it’s appointed course
Lets hope and pray each change may be
For better not for worse.

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

Footnote by P.D. – dated 7th October 1971 – in his 86th year.  He would probably have known the people who lived there.  In a letter his grandson Patrick said he remembered him writing this poem. It was Patricks wish that this web site be set up.