Begorra, bejabbers, who says they can’t play?
Jist let him come round and we stap up his bray;
We’ll belabber him jist as we did the Q.P.’
And make him howl out ‘Ochone, let me be.’
Rejoicin’ there is in the district out East,
We all ov us now hold our heads with the best;
Our bould Ciltic boys are wans for the ball,
And of the cups they will merrily jist lift them all!
They’ve gotten the ‘City’ and the ‘Scottish’ wan too,
And the ‘Charity’s’ standin to brighten their view;
Och! the ‘League’ it isn’t a half mile to fame,
And they mane to be kings of the great football game.
Begorra, bejabbers, who says they can’t play?
Jist let him come round and we stap up his bray;
We’ll belabber him jist as we did the Q.P.’
And knock him about like some ould referee!
(Author unknown. This anonymous poem was published in The Baillie on April 13th 1892. The strange spellings are an attempt to give the poem an “Irish” sound!)