Springtime And Old Irishmen Poem by David Whalen

As an Irishman,
tis my prerogative
To be an authority on all things
Great and small

As an "old" Irishman
it's my fate
Of late (and as always)
To simply know it all

As an old Irishman of visage worn
Of craggy face, rheumy blue eyes
With clothing crudely rent and worn
Prone to ale, stout and whisky sighs

As an old wise, wizened Irishman
Who loves the winter as a wondrous thing
But as sure it is, I'm an old Irishman
I treasure most…the Irish Spring

As a wise, wizened, oft inebriated Irishman
Given well to know that one's only given so many things
I relish the pleasure of the Springs I have left
Until this old wrinkled Irishman takes wing

As when this old Irishman
leaves the moor and the glen
There's but a few things I'll rue
To not see nor to hear once again

ne'er again see na' more The hind end of Winters…
ne'er hear "Danny boy" pluck again at me heartstrings…
And Na' more to smell the cold Irish sea
Nor know the fresh faces of fine Irish Springs