The pairings for the Quarter Final made the two teams smile,
For Tyrone and the Dubs had not competed for a while.
Victory for either team might herald a new dawn,
And both sides thought they had a chance, when their two names were drawn.
Hill 16 was hopping with the navy and the blue.
The expectations were quite high that Dublin would get through.
From Poppintree to Blanchardstown, from Blackrock to Old Bawn,
Towards the pitch at Croker they’d been resolutely drawn.
Mickey Harte was cautious, though he tried hard to be candid,
He said he hoped the Tyrone lads would not be caught red-handed.
They questioned him minutely if he favoured brains or brawn,
But the wily old campaigner said that he would not be drawn.
Tyrone started brightly and built up a head of steam,
Revenge for missing hubcaps seemed to galvanise the team.
They practised their short-passing game upon the Croke Park lawn,
And first blood to the Ulstermen was confidently drawn.
At last the home team scored a point, and plenty more besides,
Though Caffrey must have been dismayed at all the easy wides.
But Quinner’s goal on half-time meant he was a man re-born –
No finer portrait of sheer bliss had Gainsborough ever drawn.
What did Mickey Harte put in the players’ half-time tea?
An elixir of amphetamines to give vitality?
It must have been quite potent, like a pinch of rhino horn,
As from their bodies any thought of lethargy was drawn.
Where once the Dublin midfield ruled, they now were forced to cower,
Surprised at the intensity that some called Tyrone Power.
The forwards looked more lively and did prove a constant thorn,
As out of their positions, the poor Dublin backs were drawn.
Then up stepped Magic Mulligan to score a wonder goal,
And Tyrone, like a fresh-baked crust, were really on a roll.
And on the Hill, the thousands there all bent their heads to mourn,
As the curtain of their hopes and prayers were very firmly drawn.
But Dublin to their credit kept on beavering away,
Though the fans were disappointed when good chances went astray.
Time and time again, anticipation turned to scorn,
As shots went sailing wide and yet another blank was drawn.
But Tyrone seemed a bit unnerved, and daft mistakes crept in,
They couldn’t put the Dubs away and underscore the win.
The Ulster fans were now the ones who seemed the more forlorn,
Their faces told a picture, they were agonised and drawn.
And sure enough, bould Tomás Quinn put over a late free
Which made the GAA accountants rub their hands with glee.
For victory from Tyrone’s grasp was well and truly torn,
And no-one could believe the Quarter Final had been drawn.
For Tyrone and the Dubs had not competed for a while.
Victory for either team might herald a new dawn,
And both sides thought they had a chance, when their two names were drawn.
Hill 16 was hopping with the navy and the blue.
The expectations were quite high that Dublin would get through.
From Poppintree to Blanchardstown, from Blackrock to Old Bawn,
Towards the pitch at Croker they’d been resolutely drawn.
Mickey Harte was cautious, though he tried hard to be candid,
He said he hoped the Tyrone lads would not be caught red-handed.
They questioned him minutely if he favoured brains or brawn,
But the wily old campaigner said that he would not be drawn.
Tyrone started brightly and built up a head of steam,
Revenge for missing hubcaps seemed to galvanise the team.
They practised their short-passing game upon the Croke Park lawn,
And first blood to the Ulstermen was confidently drawn.
At last the home team scored a point, and plenty more besides,
Though Caffrey must have been dismayed at all the easy wides.
But Quinner’s goal on half-time meant he was a man re-born –
No finer portrait of sheer bliss had Gainsborough ever drawn.
What did Mickey Harte put in the players’ half-time tea?
An elixir of amphetamines to give vitality?
It must have been quite potent, like a pinch of rhino horn,
As from their bodies any thought of lethargy was drawn.
Where once the Dublin midfield ruled, they now were forced to cower,
Surprised at the intensity that some called Tyrone Power.
The forwards looked more lively and did prove a constant thorn,
As out of their positions, the poor Dublin backs were drawn.
Then up stepped Magic Mulligan to score a wonder goal,
And Tyrone, like a fresh-baked crust, were really on a roll.
And on the Hill, the thousands there all bent their heads to mourn,
As the curtain of their hopes and prayers were very firmly drawn.
But Dublin to their credit kept on beavering away,
Though the fans were disappointed when good chances went astray.
Time and time again, anticipation turned to scorn,
As shots went sailing wide and yet another blank was drawn.
But Tyrone seemed a bit unnerved, and daft mistakes crept in,
They couldn’t put the Dubs away and underscore the win.
The Ulster fans were now the ones who seemed the more forlorn,
Their faces told a picture, they were agonised and drawn.
And sure enough, bould Tomás Quinn put over a late free
Which made the GAA accountants rub their hands with glee.
For victory from Tyrone’s grasp was well and truly torn,
And no-one could believe the Quarter Final had been drawn.
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