by Arthur Stringer
Och , me hearin' is failin' an' me eyesight is bad;
And I haven't a leg for the stratspeys I had,
Nor the tirrl av a bow that I loved as a lad!
Och, me ould head now, sure, 'tis bald to the crown,
An' I walk wid a limp, an' I look wid a frown,
An' me ould bones ache wid the years they have known!
But wheniver I thrail be that bit av a wood
Where the throstles are singin' as wanst, too, I could,
An' other lads stand where wanst, too, I stood;
Wheniver I sniff me the buds on its trees,
Wheniver the May-day's alive wid its bees,
The song of its lark, an' the smell av its breeze;
I shtill see a gerrl an' a shlip av a boy,
(Such sayin's an' doin's, cometherin', coy;
Such moitherin' meetin' an' achin' wid joy)—
They're shpeakin' the same word some other lad said;
They're draggin' me back thro' the years that are dead,
An' throublin' an' mixin' me empty ould head!
An' that shtreel av a blatherskite niver is me,
Says I to meself … then a gleek av the bee
An' a trill av the lark an' a shmell av the tree
Says that ghost av a shtreel is the ghost av me!
Last updated September 07, 2017