Our Man on the Field,
He was one of us,
Bedecked in our green
Our representative on the field
As one with the Jungle
And just as keen,
Our Man on the Field.
Ninety minutes,
Of give and take,
His wounds were quickly healed,
His beloved jersey,
He’d ne’er foresake.
Our Man on the Field.
His colour was ours,
Emerald green,
To its derisors he’d never yield,
That great supporter,
So small and lean,
Our Man on the Field.
He typified us all,
And lived our dream,
His immortality is sealed,
Johnny Doyle
In the Celtic team,
Was our
Man on the Field.
(By Mr T. Tobin of Easterhouse, Glasgow)