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