Classic Poem

Were I west in green Arran,
Or south in Glanmore,
Where the long ships come laden
With claret in store;
Yet I'd rather than shiploads
Of claret and ships,
Have your white cup, O'Hara,
Up full to my lips.

But why seek in numbers
Its virtue to tell,
When O'Hara's own chaplain
Has said, saying well,
“Turlough, bold son of Brian,
Sit ye down, boy, again,
Till we drain the great cupaun
In another health to Kian.”