In Wales they sing of Bennett, of Edwards and JJ

Their harmonies are famous as they head down Arms Park way

The pits up in the valleys are all grassed over now

But their rugby boys are skilled and strong and winning they know how

In Dublin fair the streets are thronged the morning of the game

Their Guinness sweet they drink at length as they recount the fame

Of Gibson, Ward, O’Driscoll too, their new men just as much

As they head off down Lansdowne way to watch the kick-and-rush

Up north the Scots they play in blue and drink their whisky neat

Their games are played at Murrayfield where they are rarely beat

The names of Hastings, Renwick, Weir are known in speech and song

Their players are few but they don’t care, they’ll fight the whole day long

Now the French are strange, their manners odd, they eat a lot of frogs

But their rugby play is very good and their players are demi-gods

Of Blanco, Chabal, Jean-Pierre their history is made

As they walk along the River Seine towards their famous Stade

Well Italy it has its strengths but rugby is not one

They try and run around a lot but for them it’s just not fun

If they train hard then one fine day they’ll even win a match

But all the other teams do find them easy to despatch

But I have left till last of all the teams the others fear

For England in their snowy white are skilful without peer

Car park champagne before the match is order of the day

Then into Twickers to see the foe sent soundly on their way