There he'd stand

Every Saturday afternoon

Rain pouring down that well worn face

With a cigarette in his mouth

Part of a tiny noisy crowd

He'd watch his sons play the game he loved

He would tell us lots of stories

Of heroes and glories

And the pride of the Wembley Wizards and Busby Babes

His enthusiasm was infectious

He bought us football boots for Christmas

Our dad was a Scotsman and a plumber by trade

I remember one time being three down at halftime

So we looked to Dad for a plan to turn the tide

He said, "Son, we're not here to have fun"

That whinger's trying to welch me a muck

Tackle him hard and leave him face down in the mud

On the touchline

On the touchline, our dad

A sturdy man of Caledonia and principles

But of course, we all believed him to be invincible

A father with a heart on the line

But as time went by, those old legs grew tired

So we braced ourselves for the inevitable

One sunny afternoon, the final whistle blew

My two brothers and I took him to his grave

As a long piper played that beautiful amazing grace

Our touchline dad had died

Now the funeral was a sad but humorous affair

Our dear old mom, God bless her, suffered memory loss

She said to my sister, "Where on Earth is your father?"

Sister Mary said, "Mom, he's at the front there in that box"

On the touchline, our dad

On the touchline, our dad

Now it's my turn to stand on the side in the rain

And watch my boys play the beautiful game

And sometimes, sometimes

I look up to the clouds and I say

"Dad, I hope you're looking down"

'Cause if it wasn't for you

All this might not have been

On the touchline, our dad

On the touchline, our dad