I hear a wee  bird sing
Upon a budding bough;
I feel the breath of Spring
Like balm upon my brow;
Lark-like, my heart on wing
Sings the song of the plough.

O, thrush! O, joyous thrush!
Fain would I ask of you
What makes the glad notes gush,
Spontaneous and true?
Far from your hawthorn bush
Sail Care and all her crew.

I hear the lambkin bleat;
I see it now at play;
Wow! horses, wow!!! ‘tis sweet
To watch its frolics gay.
While shade and sunshine fleet
Race over Foremass brae.

Dear feathered friends of mine!
Your gladness makes me glad;
Your melodies divine
Make me once more a lad,
Herding my father’s kine –
Ere sorrows made me sad.

I hear a wee bird sing;
A daisy’s smile I see;
I feel the kiss of Spring –
She trips along with me;
While I am following
My plough along the lea.

Michael Mullin

‘The Bard of Foremass’

Foremass Lower, Sixmilecross, Co. Tyrone.