They sit, and watch the clouds go by

And make believe it's Irish skies

They love the sun, but pray for rain

They drink to take away the pain

The London streets are paved with gold

For the London Irish

You gain the world and you lose your soul

Well if your picture is seen on the cover of every magazine

And every TV screen, will there be anything left

Of the London Irish?

They say they will return again,

But they won't say exactly when...