The Quiet Bhoy

In shadows cast by louder names,
He played his part in silent flames, No boast, no cry for wider fame
Just Celtic blood, and love of the game.

From Prestwick’s breeze to Paradise, He danced past opponents like they were mice.

A winger born with guile and grace,
The ghost that tore through time and space.

The years passed by, the trophies soared,
Yet still he walked, not one word roared,
A hundred wins, a dozen more
Still he knocked on football’s door.

He wore the green through thick and thin,
Celtic first, through loss and win,
Through managers and storms of change, He stayed, he never once refrained.

His medals rack, the records show,
But stats can’t feel the way hearts know.
Humble lad who stayed, who gave his all,
Rose each time he dared to fall.

Celtics trusty servant number forty-nine,
Whose loyalty and craft align,
Amidst the glory found, he earned
James Forrest, most humble, and unconcerned.

J. J. Whelan 2025