It's an 800 years never ending war
That causes grief, sorrow, suffering and pain - and glory!
But glory for who?
My youngest son came home today:
His friends marched with him all the way!
The flutes and drums beat out the time
As in his box of polished pine
Like dead meat on a butcher's tray -
My youngest son came home today!
My youngest son was a fine young man
With a wife and a daughter and a son:
As a man he would have lived and died
Till by that bullet sanctified -
Now he's a saint or so, they say
They brought their saint home today!
Above the narrow Belfast streets
An Irish sky looks down and weeps
On children's blood in gutters spilled
For dreams of freedom unfilled
As part of freedom's price to pay -
My youngest son came home today!
My youngest son came home today:
His friends marched with him all the way!
The flutes and drums beat out the time
As in his box of polished pine
Like dead meat on a butcher's tray -
My youngest son came home today!
But this time he's home to stay!
Writer(s): Eric Bogle
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