The Shelbourne oul’ lads tell this tale,
And swear it is the truth.
I heard it first when but a pale
And unattractive youth.
Jimmy Johnstone, Super Celt,
A jewel so brightly lustred,
Had left Parkhead, though it was felt
He still could cut the mustard.
[Extremely fond of Bell’s],
He was the Reds’ accountant’s dream
The day he signed for Shels.
His thirst for knowledge knew no bounds,
He’d limitless voracity.
But when he turned out, football grounds
Were bursting to capacity.
But there was one bizarre match, which
Was played on New Year’s Day,
And Jimmy walked on to the pitch
Quite “gingerly,” let’s say.
He never once called for the ball,
Just stood there on the flanks,
Not showing any urge at all
To join the serried ranks.
Then someone played the ball out wide,
Towards where Jim was standing.
He lifted his red head and eyed
The full back so commanding.
And ‘ere said full back got to him
And his pale, death-like pallor,
To many raucous laughs, chose Jim
Discretion over valour.
Collapsing quickly on the ground
Before he could be booted,
The cheers were heard for miles around,
When he was substituted.
There’s madness rife around us all,
But surely it’s the worst
To make a Scotsman play football
On January the First?