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I saw a spectral figure sitting in the stand
He noticed I was looking and he raised a bony hand
He said ‘Now don’t be nervous lad about tomorrow’s game;
I helped to win the cup that once, and I’ll help the team again;
A goal in the last minute that I’ll push in off the post’
And I realised I was talking to Harry Tufnell’s ghost.
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Harry Tufnell, what a man, the chap who scored the goal
That won the cup in 1912 had risen from his hole
To haunt the pitch at Oakwell and give the team some hope
Of beating mighty Chelsea: if they’re the shower, we’re the soap
That they will slip upon and come a southern cropper
Harry smiled and said ‘ I think you’ll beat ‘em good and proper
And then I’ll raise a glass of Barnsley Bitter in a toast!’
And I realised I was talking to Harry Tufnell’s ghost!
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Harry Tufnell is a legend and by tomorrow night
We’ll have other legends basking in the light;
Men with names like Howard, Odejayi, Leon, Steele;
Men who know how towns like this one think and breathe and feel;
So get your Wembley tickets booked ‘cos one team wants it most
And yes, we’ll win: you heard it first from Harry Tufnell’s ghost!