You could see them coming.
 All the lads and lassies.
 Brigades of Blue, squads of White.
 Happy ranks and smiling masses.
 C’mon the Saints!
 C’mon the Sinners!
 Not the favourites, or supposed winners.
 By battle bus, budget plane and decked out car.
 From here, from there, from near, from far.
 Grins of joy, and freshened woad.
 Streams of Saintees hit the road.
 Broxden circled, the die hard grouse.
 Standing famous, strutting proud.
 Puffed out chest and decked in blue.
 We roared out loud,
 Trains of camels, and flowing robes
 joined the journey with trails of sand,
 with cakes, and pies from a distant land
 bands of orange, stripes of black, such a prism,
 from the land of Jam and Journalism.
 In ones or twos, fifties and hundreds,
 Hats and scarves! – the rallying call.
 Opinions divided, the team that turns up
 and settles down – winner takes all.
 Tactics talked, nerves honed,
 pints of medicine swallowed,
 predictions chanted,
 and last minute bets safely phoned.
 Passed Wee Jinky, round Big Jock,
 A brief pause, a respectful nod.
 History writ across their faces.
 The Lisbon Lions, thoughts
 of then, and of our Muirton Aces.
 Pizza and Pies, under beer battered skies.
 The warm-up won, the teams appeared.
 There they were, the Saints, our Saints, there
 in a Scottish Cup Final – faces teared.
 Cuptie led, Wright heckled
 Ando towered, as did Easton
 into space for Mikey to feast on.
 Dunne stifled, Midgie carried,
 Spoony jinked and May harried.
 Macca showed touch, Macca showed vision.
 Saves forced and corners won.
 Then there was The Corner.
 The ball pinged, the box danced.
 Ando arrived, Ando towered,
 the keeper flapped, the header glanced
 Ando left – legend forever.
 Half-time stunned, surely not?
 We couldn’t win? Could we? Aye, why not?
 Saints ran, and Saints pressed
 Rode their luck and did their best.
 Mannus leapt, Mannus sprung,
 the ball sped, the bar shook
 Mannus trapped the ball
 with his bum – it’s all it took.
 We’re getting close, nerves are fraught,
 Prayers are made, and charms are sought.
 May pops up, and prods it through
 A deflected ball – Macca – it’s two!
 And there it was, we could believe.
 The rolling tears, the barren years,
 the hugs and kisses,
 the highs and lows, the nearest misses.
 Blue and white streamers
 A glint of silver, cheering dreamers
 The Gaffer hugged the Scottish Cup
 It’ll take a while to give it up.
 We drifted away to take it in.
 To write our tales and savour the win.
 And start it here with,
 The Saints
 Us from then,
 Us from now.
 C’mon the Saints!”