Glasgow’s little Ireland lay in the Garngad
Where every boy followed the Celtic, along with his dad.
From those broken down streets, against a tenement wall,
A window pane is smashed, from a beautifully struck goal.
A pint of Guinness is drank at the Wee Glenn bar,
As father lights up a smoke and adjusts his Celtic scarf.
The Grangad Shamrock sing their grandfather’s hymns,
Of Ireland’s long struggle and the Black
