The wafting of the blue and gold
When I was young and times were old
And standing amongst the Tipperary crowd
We sang our songs clear and proud.
The worship of our heroes, urging a goal
Summer days in Thurles are a part of my soul,
From the chanting of ‘Tipp’ to Slievenamon
We were the expectation, the extra man.
A roaring climax, an ash cracking finish
That summer set a flame alight that still fails to extinguish.
The joy, the pride, the utter despair,
A love of my county, the thrill of being there.
All that I am, all that we are
All made sense with that Kelly point from afar
And the wafting of the blue and gold
When I was young and times were old.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem