August 17, 1906
Go, seek my football boots, Mary, and if they
can be found,
Run with them to the cobbler, who will make
them whole and sound.
Then wash my pants and jersey, and were
needed have them sewn.
My stocking are too bad, dear, so I’ll have
to wear your own.
Long years have passed away, Mary, since
you and I first met.
I was a junior player then, and I’m junior
And to-morrow, as in days of yore, before
the game’s begun,
I must be neat and clean, Mary, though I
won’t be when I’m done.
The empty months have passed away – the
long and dreary close.
You cannot understand, Mary, the sorrows
and the woes
That have been mine these many moons –
ah, darling, do not scoff!
Life is, indeed, a misery when the football
But now it’s on again, Mary, the world seems
Bright and fair,
And once more can I strut around with a
And my mind no longer be a blank, for, with,
High converse can I hold, Mary, on corners,
points, and goals.
I’ve sometimes by the fire, Mary, sat sad
and vacant eyed,
And wondered what on earth I’d do if the
craze for football died.
I’d have to take to something else – perhaps,
I’d take to drink,
For I cannot bear the thought that I, per-
chance, should have to think.
Then have my things all ready, for to-morrow
is the day
When the never-ending football chatter comes
again to stay,
And the papers in the evening will stir up
our sluggish blood
With their tales of field of glory – slightly
modified by mud.
(Source: Milngavie and Bearsden Herald: August 17, 1906)
Categories: football poem