Matt Busby's boys were flying, returning from Belgrade,
This great United family, all masters of their trade.
The Pilot of the aircraft, the skipper Captain Thain,
Three times they tried to take off, and twice returned again.
The third time down the runaway, disaster followed close,
There was slush upon that runaway, and the aircraft never rose.
It ploughed into the marsh, it broke, it overturned.
And eight of the team were killed, when the blazing
wreckage burned.
Roger Byrne and Tommy Taylor, who were capped for England's side.
Ireland's Billy Whelan, and England's Geoff Bent died.
Mark Jones and Eddie Coleman, and David Pegg also,
They all lost their lives, as the plane ploughed through the snow.
Big Duncan, he went too, with an injury to his frame,
And Ireland's brave Jack Blanchflower will never play again.
The great Sir Matt Busby lay there, the father of his team,
Three long months would pass, before he saw his team again.
The trainer, coach and secretary, and a member of the crew,
And eight sporting journalists who, with United flew.
One of them Big Swifty, who we'll ne'er forget,
The finest English 'keeper that ever graced the net.
Oh, England's finest football team, its record truly great,
It's proud successes mocked, by a savage twist of fate.
Eight men will never play again, they met destruction there,
The flowers of English football, the flowers of Manchester.
