In the centre of this city I am choking with the heat,
And I cannot work with dreaming of the  moorwind cool and sweet,
Which blends the scent of meadows with the perfume of the peat.
In the hill winds there is healing for the city’s many woes;
From the city fret and turmoil, I will fly to the repose,
The freedom, and the glory where the purple heather grows.
I am longing to be listening to the curlew’s plaintive cry,
As it cuts across the calmness of the golden August sky –
The warm sun o’er me shining, and the cool winds blowing by.
I will climb and climb through heather; I will drink the mountain air;
I will stand upon the summit; I will gaze away to where
The horizon frames a picture that is glorious and fair.
While the heather waves its purple, and the “white heads” round me nod,
I will let wild fancies buoy me,  and my soul will soar abroad –
With a lark-like burst of rapure to the very throne of God.

When the heather is in blossom it is beautiful to see,
When the heather is in blossom, this is not the place for me –
I am off towards the mountains so  magnificent and free.

 
MICHAEL MULLIN ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’
FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE