(Written on the journey home from Lucerne in July 2014)

Because we did
 – Yes, we did.
 We won a Cup
 – the Scottish Cup.
 So here we were
 By Lake Lucerne,
 On the shore
 – Saints On Tour.
 We’d drawn the Swiss.
 Some said dodgy,
 None said easy,
 Some said a piece of
 – chocolate, Swiss of course.
 Off to the land of Clocks
 Cow Bells and Lederhosen.
 Tents bought, beds booked,
 All the routes were chosen.
 Over high peaks and deeper waters
 We’re used to that
 – the Muirton Aces
 The Saints were coming
 – lock up your daughters.
 So May’s out, and July’s in,
 No, seriously, May’s out
 – Anderson too!
 Bring your boots – it could be you!
 In dribs and drabs, Tuesday,
 Wednesday then
 in fives and tens.
 On they came, hundreds proud
 In kilts and shorts, blues and whites
 Cool in shades, with smiling faces,
 – some smashing sights.
 Bars were sortied, deep pockets needed.
 Next month’s rent,
 The Bairn’s Christmas,
 Cancel the Big Shop
 – all gone, but cheerfully spent.
 Tactics talked, predictions wagered
 Choirs practiced, anthems rehearsed,
 Some lager rough, others sweet and versed
 Then the Day – Saints on Tour
 Lazy starts and morning strolls,
 Litres of coffee, and bacon rolls.
 Chapel Bridge, Pickwick Pub,
 To pray with flags unfurled.
 Nerves aside, just right now
 The Saints on Tour – Top of the World.
 The Anfield Bar rocked with hymns,
 Sweet Caroline went Marching In
 from the Anfield Bar
 – You’ll Never Walk Alone
 And we didn’t
 – the Polis put us on a bus.
 A bendy bus that bounced
 And bounced and snaked
 And bounced some more.
 From the shore
 – of Lake Lucerne to the Game,
 Boiling hot, Steak Bake hot,
 30 degrees and more the same.
 Bannerman and Spence,
 Pencils sharpened, Chords all gargled
 – on they warbled.
 Cosgrove too
 – with his Mardi Gras Brolly.
 If we win the game
 he’d be on the Bolly.
 In blazing sun, setting slow,
 We sang, we cheered
 Through the first half glare we peered.
 The Swiss harried, they hit the bar yet
 Mannus stretched
 And tipped and caught
 Their random efforts couldn’t find the net
 The sun went down for a half time pie.
 The Lavvy Truth reviewed and agreed,
 Stay in the Tie – Stay in the Tie
 A floating cross, Macca rose
 Back o’ the Centre’s head,
 Macca shuffled in a Saintly pose
 To strike the net
 We’d scored. We lead.
 – one nil to the Saintees.
 One Bloody Nil!
 Storm Clouds burst.
 Heavy showers of Booze Free Lager.
 Bull Pen rattled, barriers clattered
 An away goal – of course it mattered.
 They huffed and puffed – they scored.
 Stay in the Tie – Stay in the Tie.
 We’ll take the draw and we did.
 Cup-tie Mackay, a high-viz bib,
 Lap of Honour to the Bull Pit fence.
 A jersey gift – Turkey bound.
 Happy, and tired but buzzing,
 We left the ground, thirsty
 with Lager fever for a fiver Lager.
 Match Reports to write,
 Memories to mould, songs to choose,
 A long night for the Roadhouse Blues.
 Friday Sunrise, Saturday Red Eyes,
 Ones and twos, stragglers drifted
 With bags packed and hearts full
 Of pride – Saints on Tour.
 At Nine Hundred and Seventy Five.
 We’re still alive.
 We all dream
 Of a team
 – of Dave Mackay’s
 And we did – because we did
 by glacial waters
 Under alpine skies.