I like to dream of turf smoke,
Streamer-like, unrolled
O’er little fields and gardens,
From tiny roofs of gold,
To dream of turf smoke drifting
O’er Ireland’s holy face,
To me it is a token
Of home and peace and grace.

I like to dream of bog-banks,
And ceannabhans like snow,
A turf stack by the gable
Of a little cot I know.
A big wide hearth – turf blazing-
Kettle, crooks, and crane,
Till this heart – chill and cheerless-
Begins to thaw again.

I like to dream of turf smoke,
No matter where I rove;
To me turf smoke’s a token
Of home and peace and love.
Sad pond’rings in my wand’rings
This truth to me impart-
It takes a fire of Irish turf
To warm an Irish heart.

Michael Mullin ‘The Bard of Foremass’
Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone