Now. Or Never.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more
Or close the division up with our relegated bodies
Next season there`ll be no Chelsea coming to The Reebok
Only Peterborough and Barnsley
So when the blast of the whistle blows in our ears
Then imitate that action of Wigan
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood
Disguise fair nature with a hard SKD tackle
Then lend the eye an early goal;
Let one fly from the edge of the area over Sorensen`s head
Like a Jay Jay shot; then let us overwhelm them
So fearlessly that Shawcross whimpers
And he calls for his mummy from his confounded base
Swill`d with the crys of two thousand Trotters
Bogdan set your feet and stretch that header wide
Or hold hard the ball after bending every sinew
To your fullest height. On, on, you fighting Bolton
Whose history is fet from fathers of Burnden Park
Fathers that, like so many Nat Lofthouses
Have in these parts from first to final whistle fought
And rolled over Stoke before with lack of argument
Dishonour not your fans; now attest
That those who you have called supporters have not beget you.
Be copy now to those men of 2003
And show you can do it again. And you, good substitutes
Whose limbs were made all over the world, show us here
That you are worth your contracts; which I doubt not,
For there is none of you so rich and lazy
That hath not survival in your eyes.
I see you stand like your predecessors in the tunnel
Straining for the kick off. The game will be played with your feet:
Follow your spirit, and upon the whistle
Cry ‘God, for Owen, Bolton and Sir Nat!`