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.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem