• Michael Mullins
  • Michael "The Bard" Mullin
  • "The Bard of Foremass"
  • Poem Banner
    Poems
    Whin Bushes

    Whene’er I dream of Foremass
    Or of boyhood’s day,
    I see whin bushes golden
    Upon a grassy brae.
    I see their cobweb curtains,
    With the tear drops of night
    Turned into gleaming jewels
    By Morn’s hand –maidens bright.

    I see an old whin fence there,
    And a boy with a book –
    A bashful, bare-legged boy there,
    A-dreaming in a nook;
    And happily up-gazing.
    At cloud-ships sailing by,
    And larks confiding secrets
    Of the earth to the sky.

    No matter where I wander,
    The music of the wind
    In the old whin bushes
    Is ever in my mind.
    The rill of childhood hastening
    Boyhood’s brook to greet;
    Made music like that music –
    Soothing, soft, and sweet.

    A dear old whin umbrella,
    With green and golden crown;
    And the wind whistling over;
    And the rain dripping down.
    On a little cow-herd dreaming
    Upon an April day:
    I see, in dreams of Foremass –
    Foremass far away.

    MICHAEL MULLIN

    ‘THE BARD OF FOREMASS’

    FOREMASS LOWER, SIXMILECROSS, CO. TYRONE