Wee juking, jiving, jinking Jimmy,
What endless joy your antics gie me,
Ye twist and shuffle, shake and shimmy
Wi feline grace.
Defeners sprachle oot behin’ ye
A’ower the place.
O laddie wi’ the teinkling feet,
Ye mak’ defenders girn and greet;
Ye waltz aroon, through rain and sleet
Or sunshihe bricht.
I sit and squirm here on my seat
Wi’ sheer delicht.
Wee teasing , tanalising chiel.
O shades o’ Morton, James and Steel:
W’ rasping shot and cute back heel
Or deadly flicks.
For like trump cairds in ony deal
Ye’er fu’ o’ tricks
In fitba books ye’ll write yer name,
Wee weaving wizard o’ the game;
Yer phot in the Hall o’ Fame
Will surely hing.
And Celtic fans will make the claim
Ye’re Soccer’s king.
(By Henry McCraken of Drunmore – 1970)
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Jimmy Johnstone
by The Holy Poet..
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He joined Celtic, aged thirteen years, a ballboy at the game
The youth team knocked upon his door, his skill had gained him fame
The bhoy from Viewpark Uddingston, would stake an early claim
To become the greatest ever Celt, the world has ever seen.
A Glasgow bhoy, a Celtic man, he always knew he’d play
In front of sixty thousand fans in Pradise one day
He played the game to entertain, enthralling all the crowd
And in return, the fans would sing, his praises loud and proud.
Our winger showed his trickery, his guile and his strength
His attitude, his balance, poise, displayed at every length
He’d jink around the same man twice, that’s how he got his name
He’d twist and turn ’til they were dazed, then atke them on again.
Diminutive in stature, a Colossus on the field
He stood a measly five feet four but this man would never yield
His fiery, ginger, curly hair and mesmerising moves
Inspired at an early age to play the game he loves.
His dazzling skills and flight of feet were wondrous to see
Defenders terrified of him would want to turn and flee
They knew they’d never catch him, so kicked him as before,
A Foul! He’d just take the ball and go back in for more!
His football became legendary, across the globe did span
The attitude he always showed, to please the paying fan
By skipping past the midfield men and flying down the wing
From there he’d beat them yet again, and his cross, a goal would bring.
Jinky relished every game and wore his shirt with pride
Bobbing, weaving in and out, he’d star in any side
A master craftsman of his art, always brave and bold
A solo genius, never rich, was worth his weight in gold.
Diseased with Motor Neurone, he sadly passed away
The legacy he left to us, the wonders of his play.
Lord Of The Wing, we thank you, you made that No 7
All your own and wear it still, in your Paradise in Heaven.
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