As you walk down Backbrae Street, just follow the burn,
And at the bridge, just take a right turn,
There any Saturday you’ll find a football game,
In the big Sportsfield, without any name.

Our fathers built it, though healthy or sick,
Through long summer nights with shovel and pick,
And through short winter days, their tools they would wield,
Those men who built St Patrick’s Sportsfield.

A few years ago, I’m not sure how long,
Our Sportsfiled was sold, some say for a song,
I can’t imagine why, but they said it would be better,
If they took down the name, letter by letter.

Yes they said it would be better to take the name down,
Because visitors would be confused when they came to the town,
Well if that was the reason, we could have banished their fear,
For visitors had been going there for 35 years.

This was the place for our young men to play,
And what players we had – I have to say,
We had the Carr’s and the Eagan’s – some of the best,
But we have Martin and Eddie now sadly at rest.

There was Rab Pender, George Kelly and wee Hugh McCann,
Pete McCluskey, Big Fitzie, Wull Cox and Big Dan,
Players who matured just like a good wine,
Like Eddie Scullion, The McMahon’s and Patrick Devine.

There was John Keirnan, John Waters and Big Matthew Connor,
Who played like the rest, who played for the honour,
There is one thing about all these great lads that’s the same,
When they played in the Sportsfield, it had a NAME.