With my poor health, and pockets empty as a cloud -

That's enough of that! Somebody Irish in my blood

Is talking into my left ear, and it sounds good.

To the hell with the whole bloody troubles, says he.

But you can't, says the Scotch-English in me.

O man but you can toss the world away and win,

Says my Irish. I never told you, but you can,

And it's permission I give you, and the possibility.

Once there's a blessing, it doesn't ever wear off,

Though you were never one not to handle it rough.

Put your poor health in your pocket. Get on away.

It's the world, isn't it, and you in it this day.