Down the Gallowgate
I took a stroll one Saturday along to Argyle Street,
To Glasgow Cross, were the Gallowgate & the Trongate meet,
Under the railway bridge and McKinnon’s pub, I would often pass,
Heading up towards to the Barras, towards the Celtic bars.
My first stop of the journey was the famous Saracen Head
Were rebel songs by Glasgow bands, were loudly, proudly played.
I drank my pint plus two more and gladly sang along;
‘Crossmaglen’, ‘Irish Soldier Laddie’, ‘Sean South of Garryowen’.
I squeezed by some thirsty fans, in through the doorway of Bairds Bar
Were a pint of Tennents 80/, I was duly served,
By the jukebox on the wall, I always like to stand
Listening to a ballad, of the martyr, Bobby Sands.
By the time, I reached the entrance of Bar 67
Grey clouds had gathered and threatened to rain,
I stood amongst fans, who hailed from Belfast and from Derry,
Who had travelled to the game, on the overnight ferry.
After finishing my third pint in the Hoops Bar
I contemplated on buying and drinking another jar,
With the game to set to start in less than 20 minutes,
I had a glass of Jamieson’s whiskey & toasted the Glasgow Celtic.
Nov’14th 2005
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Related quotes
Our Fathers Gave Us Celtic
Our ancestors came from Ireland
Who brought their pride and their faith,
They gathered as one at Celtic park
To express their cultural identity.
Our father’s gave us Celtic
And the songs we sing today,
Our Irish heritage we celebrate
When watching the Bhoys in green play.
The Celtic jersey was worn by icons
Who played with heart and soul,
Diehards for the Celtic cause,
Entertainers, who brought us goals.
We stood through miserable Scottish weather
Suffering the defeat of a Rangers game,
But our spirits stayed strong as we chanted loud
In praise of Celtic’s name.
But it is football, faith and passion
To Parkhead we make our way,
As we sit were our father’s once stood
To see football played the Glasgow Celtic way.
Feb’22nd 2005
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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With a Celtic Scarf around My Neck
Hail Hail to all the Celtic fans
I see you are in good voice
Let us stand within McConnell's pub
And sing and drink to the Bhoys
For we were born and it's in our blood
To follow the bhoys in green
For the Glasgow Celtic are the finest team
The world has ever seen.
It was many years ago when our fore-fathers
Left their native home
As they said goodbye to Donegal,
To Limerick and Tyrone
They fled the English landlords
And the famine that scoured their land
They crossed the sea to Glasgow town
With Ireland’s cross in their hand.
To Jock Stein and the Lisbon Lions
Our fathers would raise a cheer,
As they sat within their local pubs
With a whiskey and a beer,
And the tears would flow when a ballad was sung
Of Cardenden’s finest son
As the pub stood quiet to the memory
Of Celtic’s young Johnny Thomson.
We were Christened at the Chapel
With a Celtic scarf around our necks,
Remembering all the miles, we had traveled
As we would wander to old Parkhead,
Up the Gallowgate, we would make our way
Taking our dear old father’s hand
As he told us, we should walk with pride
To be a faithful Celtic fan.
And today we make the same pilgrimage
As we have done for many years,
Standing or sitting at Paradise
Letting the world hear our Celtic cheers,
Let no man take away our faith
In the bhoys in the green & white strip,
For we live our days in the Celtic way
Supporting our heroes on Parkhead’s pitch.
Nov’11th 2005
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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In the Hoops of Green
In the hoops of green
In colours proud
Players, past & present
Heroes to Parkhead’s crowd.
From Maley’s days
And Jock Stein’s glory
The faithful have grown
On Celtic’s story.
From the streets of Glasgow
From Maryhill Road
To the sidewalks of Toronto
The passion still grows.
As we sing with pride
Old familiar songs
Our culture and faith
We will pass along.
With our Irish pride
In the hoops of green
We will forever support
Glasgow’s Irish team.
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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All Roads Lead to Paradise
It will not be long now,
The days are drawing near,
Until we are standing again at Celtic Park
Letting the bhoys hear our cheer.
We will descend upon the Holy Ground,
Travel, from far and wide,
To see Neil Lennon lead onto the field
The bhoys in green & white.
We will bring our sons and daughters,
Proudly wearing their Celtic colours,
And they will cheer on the Glasgow Celtic;
Our heritage and our culture.
Supporters will take the Gallowgate walk,
Some will travel by bus and ferry
But all roads will lead to Paradise,
Were played Larsson, Dalglish & McGrory.
July’2006
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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The Birth of Celtic
In eighteen hundred and eighty-eight
Brother Walfrid walked along the Gallowgate,
Were immigrants of Ireland walked the streets,
No food in their stomachs, no shoes on their feet.
These souls of the famished Irish nation
Had made their home in Glasgow’s east end,
Ridiculed & provoked by the Protestant majority
Who could not accept the Irish faith & identity.
In Scotland’s east coast, Edinburgh, the capital,
Had saw the rise in the game of football,
Where a team, Hibernian, played under Ireland’s harp,
And brought victory with them onto the park.
And Brother Walfrid, a Marist priest,
Saw poverty prosper in his parish,
He suggested a savior to the Irish nationalist
Who had never seen a ball been kicked on a pitch.
A team would be organized; a stadium would be built,
Players would be sourced who had courage & skill,
And the income generated from watching the team,
Would feed the tables of Irish families & children.
Players were asked, some where even stolen,
From teams like Cowlairs and Renton,
Land was rented that was barren and unkept;
History was about the wake the giant that slept.
Glasgow’s Irish saw Brother Walfrid’s dream come true
As an organized football team now grew,
A Celtic cross was stitched to a white jersey,
As preparations were made for a “friendly”.
Glasgow Rangers, the visitors, took to the field,
Already a threat to the Scottish game,
But the dominance faded for the team in blue,
As the Irish team of Celtic won by a score of 5-2
The birth of Celtic, was Brother Walfrid’s dream,
As history has favoured the bhoys in green,
From the legacy of Jock Stein, to the resurgence of Martin O’Neill,
The passion & commitment can be found on Celtic’s football field.
July'22nd 2003
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Brother Walfrid
For the poor and the famished,
The Irish and their children,
For the community who came from shores of Erin
To settle in Glasgow’s east end.
To raise awareness for the sick
Who had traveled on coffin ships,
Charity began from a Marist priest
As bread and water were hailed as a feast.
Goodwill never shone from Scotland’s heart
To those who were born under Ireland’s harp,
In the church and parish, they knelt and prayed
As hope was promised from Brother Walfrid.
And when the sport of football reached the streets of Glasgow,
When poverty still grew around the man from Ballymote,
Brother Walfrid found faith for the poor and the sick
As football was introduced to, the famous Glasgow Celtic.
Sept’7th 2004
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Brother Walfrid Stands by Parkhead's Gates
The Celtic songs filled heaven's sky
and we marched along the Gallowgate
Joined by comrades, brothers and sisters,
As Brother Walfrid stood by Parkhead's gates.
The Celtic passion is such devotion,
Heritage, culture and our faith,
Our father’s father bore the tradition,
While Brother Walfrid stood by Parkhead's gates.
In the Garngad, from the parish of St.Roch’s,
Ireland’s sons and daughters would pray,
From the Royston Road, we would find our spiritual home
As Brother Walfrid’s soul welcomed us through Parkhead’s gates.
Our Irish inheritance we will cradle,
With the Glasgow Celtic, we will celebrate,
On the Holy Ground will play heroes & legends,
Blessed by Brother Walfrid who stands by Parkhead's gates.
The green and white drapes over our heart
As we are educated on the Celtic way,
And as we gather within Celtic Park,
Brother Walfrid stands by Parkhead’s gates.
Nov’17th 2005
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Within Parkhead’s Dream
Green for glory
And the team we love
Regained the league
And the Scottish Cup.
Pubs in Glasgow
Sang Celtic’s name
The passionate fan
Igniting Celtic’s flame.
Our colours bold
The hoops of green
Were memories are gold
Of our father’s team.
With the loss of Larsson
We’ll carry on
Supporting the Celtic
In story and song.
We’ll stand with pride
Within Parkhead’s dream
Were the ghost of legends
Support the bhoys in green.
June’8th 2004
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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After the match
Final whistle has been blown
yet another loss and a defeat
our fans head home miserable
heads bowed walking down the street.
Some have to stand in a queue for a bus
others walk or drive off in their cars
a few stand talking about the match
while most head off to clubs and bars.
In the pub fans discuss missed chances
and moan about the very poor referee
some say they won't be coming again
and wouldn't watch them even if it was free.
But the long suffering supporter says nothing
just sits quietly drinking his pint of beer
he's listened and heard it all so many times
season after season and year after year.
He'll be back for the next game once again
hoping and praying that his team don't get beat
but whatever the result at the end of the match
he'll keep on watching his team in his usual seat.
poem by Kevin Halls
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Coimeád an Creideamh
Green flags are unfurled and fill Glasgow's sky
Banners of Celtic held up high
Keep the faith, with pride, Walk on
Fill your heart with a Celtic song.
Pull on that green & white jersey
Reared on the Celtic way
A battlecry will sound from our soul
From the mouths of men, young and old.
As we stand watching, God's chosen team
With our children wearing the proud green,
Through victory & defeat we will gather strong
As Paradise will hear our hymns & songs.
Jan’9th 2006
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Tense And Nervous At The Match
Massive game today
butterflies in my stomach
can feel my heart beating
beads of sweat on my brow.
But I'm not even playing
I'm just a loyal supporter
but we need the win so much
a fan who loves his football club.
The referee has blown his whistle
our fans are singing and chanting
the away fans are singing as well
they need three points as much as us.
The game is swinging to and fro
they have hit the post and so have we
then with five minutes till half time
they are awarded a dodgy penalty.
Our keeper tries to put the taker off
he jumps up and down on his line
he strikes it hard to the goalies left
the keeper alas dives to his right instead.
One down at the interval it's off to the bar
us fans moaning about the dreadful decision
then after a pint it's back to the stands
to start cheering on our team once again.
We go on the attack right from the start
our striker bangs one on to their bar
then we get a bit of luck at last
the referee has given us a dodgy penalty.
There keeper jumps up and down on his line
but our taker stands with hands on hips
then cooly trots up and hits it to the right
there keeper dives down to his left.
One all now with ten minutes to go
us fans are going crazy getting behind the team
then we all end up hugging and leaping about
because our striker has smacked it in the net.
The ref blows his whistle it's the end of the game
we all stand and clap our beloved team off
it's off to the pub for a great night out
it feels so good when your team gets a win!
poem by Kevin Halls
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A Team Brother Walfrid Called Celtic
In the Archdiocese of Glasgow
In the city’s east end,
Brother Walfrid sat with his assistant Brother Dorotheus,
The vision they shared
Was that the poor must be fed
As the dinner tables lay empty for the Irish.
Brother Walfrid had a dream
That wore Ireland’s emerald green
And would be saviours to the minority Catholics,
The Irish stood at Parkhead
And the football was played
By a team, that Brother Walfrid called Celtic.
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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On Matchdays
Meet in the pub
have a few beers
banter with away fans
wind each other up.
Make way to the ground
soak up the atmosphere
quick flick through the programme
clap the players onto the pitch.
A half time pint and pie
chat about the game
then back to your seat
hug your mate, just scored.
Gutted a late equaliser
but hold on for a draw
some boo, some clap
back to the pub.
Have a few beers
banter with away fans
wind each other up
shake hands,
'safe journey home '
poem by Kevin Halls
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The Universe Is Flat
a pint of real ale
the Angel who'd been holding aloft a screen
beyond the furthest galaxies
or just about as far as man could dream
in the pub car-park
had rolled it up
and stood it against the wall
is that all it is
pinpricks of light
half a pint still in his glass
the Angel let pass
more tiresome questions about unfathomable things
just sat
framed by an arched window
making slight quivery movements with his wings
poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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The Ballad of Brother Walfrid
My name is Andrew Kerins,
born and bred in Ballymote
I left my home at an early age
and traveled to Scotland in a trawler boat
Would I ever again see Ireland,
as the famine had stolen her strength
Would Scotland welcome the Diaspora,
of Irish men & women
My calling of becoming a Marist Priest
led me to the Glasgow parish of St.Mary's
Where the immigrant Irish, poor and starved,
made home in the east end of the city
My heart cried out when I saw theses lost souls,
living in poverty and in squalor
As Protestant Scotland would not accept,
their accent, dress or culture.
I prayed day and night to Our Lord,
for the welfare of St.Patrick's flock,
As jobs were few and far between
as they were ridiculed, harassed and mocked,
From all over Ireland, they came to Glasgow,
to escape the potatoe blight
Some had wished they had went to America,
to live in the comfort of the stars and stripes
I saw the hunger on the faces of children
when they sat for Sunday Mass,
My dream was to feed them once a day,
that became my spiritual task.
Along with the St Vincent de Paul Society,
we would reach out to these starving souls,
The Poor Children's 'Penny Dinner' Table was formed,
for the undernourished children of Glasgow.
The Donegal dialect and the Kerry brogue,
I heard within my confessional,
As Ireland’s lonely sons and daughters
spoke of broken hearts and promises,
I sought to feed their hunger
and bring hope to their shattered dreams
I fought to bring them comfort,
to silence their children’s screams.
At St.Mary’s hall in the Calton,
in February of 1887
I joined the victory celebrations
for a football team called Hibernian,
They were the pride of every Irishman
from Scotland’s east and west coast,
Were we sang songs of dear old Ireland,
to Hibernian, some gave a toast.
Like a vision of God before me,
inspiration came to me I a dream
Were the old east end of Glasgow,
would like Edinburgh, have an Irish team,
No more would Irish families live in poverty
or see their children sick,
For a football team would play for charity
and that team I would call Celtic.
For months, we toiled the barren land
that sat upon Janefield Street
And built a stadium for football
were the Irish would gather and meet,
I saw smiles appear on the faces of children,
who carried Ireland in their heart,
For they could not wait to welcome the Bhoys,
Who would one day grace Celtic Park.
Daniel McDonagh – Apr’27th 2006
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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The Jungle Bhoys
On the terracing at Parkhead we gather
Watching the Bhoys in green play,
we’ll sing you a song of the Celtic
And of the players who played down Parkhead’s way.
Chorus
With our banners and flags of the Celtic
We’re the sound of the Paradise voice
Our culture, we’ll bring back to Parkhead
Hail Hail to the bold Jungle Bhoys
We’ve grown in our years with the Celtic
Raised on the history and pride
Wishing we could play for the Celtic
And wear the jersey of the old green & white
Chorus
With our banners and flags of the Celtic
We’re the sound of the Paradise voice
Our culture, we’ll bring back to Parkhead
Hail Hail to the bold Jungle Bhoys
As we travel to the east end of Glasgow
Wearing our colours of green, white & gold,
We’ll celebrate and sing of the Celtic
Who live forever in our green and white soul.
Chorus
With our banners and flags of the Celtic
we’re the sound of the Paradise voice
our culture, we’ll bring back to Parkhead
Hail Hail to the bold Jungle Bhoys.
With our banners and flags of the Celtic
we’re the sound of the Paradise voice
our culture; we’ll bring back to Parkhead
Hail Hail to the bold Jungle Bhoys.
Nov’2005
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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The Man in Green
Well, you wonder why
I always wear the green,
The colours of the world’s
Finest football team,
You will never see me wear the colours
Of royal or navy blue,
As I’m a Celtic supporter,
Faithful through and through.
I wear the green for my ancestors,
Who came from Ireland, long ago,
Who left Erin’s shores and settled
In the town of Glasgow,
I wear it for the Irish Diaspora,
Who fled the famine and the crown,
I wear from Brother Walfrid
Who sheltered the poor in the east end of town.
I wear the emerald green
In memory of my father,
Garngad born,
A faithful Celtic supporter,
He walked the path to heaven,
Over ten years ago,
As he stands with Our Lord
Wearing his green, white and gold.
I wear the green for the Celtic legends,
Who have left our lives,
Knowing that they entered heaven
With Our Lord on their side,
I wear it for Willie Maley, Jock Stein
And young John Thomson,
I wear it for Bobby Murdoch, Johnny Doyle
And wee Jimmy Johnstone.
I wear the colours of Celtic,
Each and every day,
I pray for the bhoys of Parkhead each night,
And to God, I do say,
Why do all the Orangemen,
All hate the sight of green?
For green’s the finest colour
That the world has ever seen.
March’29th 2006
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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To My Bartender
Night after night
You serve me
Pint after pint
You greet me with a smile
And I stay for awhile
As lines start to blur
And my words begin to slur
Feeling start to stir
I begin to wonder what you look like under your dress
And how your skin would feel to caress
And if maybe,
Maybe you would dance with me in the yellow moonlight
On this starless night
As clouds drift by and I drift into you
As one we would be
But alas,
I see the bottom of my glass
You ask me if I want another
I can think of none other
I’d like to see night after night
This is to you, my bartender
poem by Andrew Carson
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Amhán Na bhFiann
Ireland’s National Anthem
Has been branded a sectarian song,
As it’s sang on Parkhead’s terracing
By Celtic’s faithful sons,
Can we celebrate at Celtic Park
The heritage of our ancestors?
Or are we to be silenced by the critics
For heralding our Irish culture?
2005
poem by Daniel McDonagh
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Born From the Blood of the Gael
I learned my history of Ireland
From my father every Friday night,
When he would arrive home from Madigan’s bar
Reciting in song and verse of Ireland’s fight.
He talked of Robert Emmett
And sang of the brave Wolfe Tone,
He spoke with pride of Padraig Pearse
Of James Connolly, he would recite a poem.
It was not the Guinness that fuelled his passion,
For his heritage, he would never part.
And he told me, that I, a son of the Diaspora
Was an Irish bhoy at heart.
He said that Brother Walfrid should be canonized a saint
For his vision and his dream.
For he brought faith and pride to the Glasgow Irish
With men proudly wearing the emerald green.
A second-class citizen is how he had felt all his life
For being a Catholic of Irish descent.
And it burned his soul, the discrimination and bigotry,
That had encountered his up bringing in a Glasgow tenement.
He spoke of the shipyards; he had worked down by the Clyde,
Harassed for his faith, labeled a papist and Fenian.
His solace he found, in Our Lord and the Virgin Mary,
How he sometimes wished, he had the strength of Cúchulainn.
Our heritage and culture, he said, shall last forever
For we are born from the blood of the Gael,
And the next time that you walk into Parkhead,
Those rebel songs of old, sing, shout and yell.
Daniel McDonagh June’2008
poem by Daniel McDonagh
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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