This day is called – the feast of Lisbon Lions Day:
He that plays on this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
And smile at the name of Jock Stein.
He that outlives this day, and sees old age,
Will yearly on this vigil feast his friends,
And say, “Today is Lisbon Lions Day.”
Then he will hold out his hand, and show his medal,
And say, “This I won on Lisbon Lions Day.”
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember, with advantages,
What feats we did that day. Then shall their names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words, -
Simpson, Craig, Gemmell, Murdoch, and McNeill,
Clark, Johnstone and Wallace,
Chalmers, Auld and Lennox,
Be in their cups freshly remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Lisbon Lions Day shall ne’er go by
From this day to the ending of the world,
But in it we shall be remembered, -
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
For he who shares Lisbon Lion Day with me,
Shall be my brother, be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And those people at Ibrox, now dead,
Shall think themselves cursed, they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap, while any speaks,
That played with us upon Lisbon Lions Day.