Quay lại trang chủ | Luyện nghe Bài Hát

 One cold  bitter Thursday in Munich, Germany,
 Eight great football  conceded victory,
 Eight men who will never play  who met destruction there,
  flowers of English football, the flowers of Manchester
 
 Matt Busby's boys  flying, returning from Belgrade,
 This great United family, all  of their trade,
 The Pilot of the aircraft, the skipper Captain 
 Three times they tried to take off and twice turned  again.
 
 The third time down the  disaster followed close,
 There was  slush upon that runaway and the aircraft never rose,
  ploughed into the marshy ground, it broke, it overturned.
 And eight of the team were killed as the  wreckage burned.
 
 Roger Byrne and  Taylor who were capped for England's side.
 And Ireland's Billy Whelan and England's  Bent died,
 Mark Jones and Eddie Colman, and David  also,
  all lost their lives as it ploughed on through the snow.
 
  Duncan he went to, with an injury to his frame,
 And Ireland's brave Jack Blanchflower will never play 
 The great Sir Matt Busby lay there,  father of his team
 Three long months passed by before  walked again.
 
 The trainer, coach and secretary,  a member of the crew,
  eight sporting journalists who with United flew,
  one of them Big Swifty, who we'll never forget,
 the finest  'keeper that ever graced the net.
 
  England's finest football team its record truly great,
 its proud successes mocked by a cruel  of fate.
 Eight men will never  again, who met destruction there,
 the flowers of  football, the flowers of Manchester.