As evening fell and Dublin city fuelled itself for a wet, shining night of booming bars and mammoth taxi queues, it was hard not to feel rather sorry for the sons of St George huddled in the upper echelons of Croke Park.
All week, it had been made abundantly clear that this match, this occasion, was about Ireland. And obligingly, meekly, England bowed. Somewhere along the way Irish history, GAA folklore and the pomp and glitter of modern day rugby had become muddled to create a strange and fascinating night on the Jones' Road.
By the time Ronan O'Gara delivered his wonderful homage to Gaelic football, old Erin was feeling mightily pleased with herself. The Cork man floated a daring kick across the Canal End of the ground with 10 minutes left. Shane Horgan made a dashing fetch and grounded the ball for a celebratory try. And just like that, Blighty was dashed and humbled.
As shows go, England's momentous visit to the citadel of Gaelic culture was a master class of choreography. Predictions of insurrection and protest on the streets never really materialised. But then, it rained cats and dogs in Dublin all afternoon and Manchester United and Fulham were playing on the box. It was tough for patriotism to get a look in.
The crowds gathered late around Dorset Street, which meant a late scramble to make the house seats in time for the long-awaited rendition of God Save herself. After a long delay and a chorus of nervous laughter, the Combined Army and number one Garda Band struck up the mournful, brassy bars. The English sang lustily to their Ma'am. The Irish stayed perfectly silent. Like Rural Electrification, Sex, and Getting Rich, we applauded ourselves on getting it over with.
And after that, The Soldier's Songwas belted out from the famous horseshoe stadium with ferocious gusto. The white-shirted English stood tightly together as the Irish anthem rained down upon them.
And who could guess what big Phil Vickery or David Strettle, the blond new boy from Rotherham, made of this thundering show of national pride? Strettle came into the English world just after the Falklands War, grew up in the Thatcher years and became a professional rugby player. They say you never forget your international debut. And given that Strettle's debut week involved a lecture in Irish history, that must have been especially true.
The English didn't ask to play in Croke Park but, scheduled to travel here, they made sure their boys knew about those distant events of Bloody Sunday.
Will Carling, the captain of England during their powerhouse years of the 1990s, made the point on Saturday morning that it would be wrong if the current England team were somehow made to feel guilty about an atrocity that came in the wake of the first World War. And that never happened.
But as the Irish anthem reached a mighty crescendo, it was hard not to feel that the tens of thousands of home fans were claiming a moral high ground which these young Englishman could not possibly be expected to know or understand.
Mired in history, England also got lost in Celtic rugby. After a few minutes of what Eddie O'Sullivan termed "shadowboxing", the Ireland rugby boys took ownership of Croke Park. There were some glorious passages of play during the infliction of the 43-13 victory, a record. The geometric beauty of O'Gara's strategic kicking, the monstrous hit by Brian O'Driscoll on England's Ollie Morgan, the Harlem Globetrotter's flick from Gordon D'Arcy for Girvan Dempsey's try, the sight of the flame-haired Paul O'Connell battering at the all-white pack: Ireland were rampant.
How odd it must all have been for Brian Ashton, who presided over a disastrous Irish team 10 years ago, to return to this magnificent stadium and see men in green shirts fling the ball about like New Zealanders.
In the emigration years, Ireland regarded a rugby victory over England as a miracle. Remember the stunned delight that followed Simon Geoghegan's try in Twickenham in 1994? It was a bit like mooning their Royal family.
On Saturday, it was different. Ireland expected the tries to roll and, worse, so did England.
Jonny Wilkinson, the golden boy of three years ago, was just another player in white. When he did briefly rally England hearts, the Croke Park crowd quickly booed and hushed a doomed attempt to sing Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. We were bossy hosts.
And when Issac Boss raced in for a late, giveaway try, a plaintive, Fat Cat chant filled the soaking, neon Dublin night.
"Easy. Easy. Easy," was the abiding message from Croke Park.
God above. We sounded pleased. We sounded almost English.
