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Come all you true Hibees, and sway while you sing.
The love of Hibernian’s a powerful thing.
We shout out our chants, praise our heroes by name:
my countrymen playing compatriot games.
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My name’s Ian Hebrin, you might know my face.
My home’s Easter Road, down in Albion Place.
I’ve watched all my life, and my father the same;
now we both take part in compatriot games.
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Once watching the Hibs was like watching Brazil,
the team overflowed with immaculate skill-
our supporters’ souls are tattooed with their names-
the most famous five of compatriot games.
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He told me how Turnbull’s Tornadoes broke through
the Celtic defence back in seventy two.
The Parkhead back line was all battered and lame-
they simply weren’t up to compatriot games.
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Mercurial, he was never a stayer:
hitting more bars than the average player.
Though now fading with time, his legend remains-
the greatest to grace our compatriot games.
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Bob Shankly, Jock Stein, and now Stubbs is our man,
who pledges his best to our lowliest fan,
who vows to uphold the club’s glorious name
and leads from the front in compatriot games.
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It’s all downhill, or there’s a mountain to climb,
but the teams turn around after half time:
the slope of the pitch is one half of our fame;
the other half is our compatriot games.
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We don’t buy much Brasso, we’re borassic lint:
our trophy room’s empty, there’s hardly a glint
of silverware there, no citations in frames,
few cups have been won in compatriot games.
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The badge my team wears bears no foreign crown.
We sing ‘Erin Go Bragh’ in this part of town,
though these days our songs have less radical aims:
the Ref. called offside to the patriot games.