My Youngest Son Came Home Today
by Eric Bogle
My youngest son came home today.
His friends marched with him all the way.
The flutes and drum 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, a daughter, and a son,
A man he would have lived and died,
Till by a bullet sanctified.
Now he's a saint, or so they say –
They brought their saint home today.
Upon the narrow Belfast streets
An Irish sky looks down and weeps
On children's blood in gutters spilled
For dreams of freedom unfulfilled
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 drum 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.
– And this time he's home to stay.
My Youngest Son Came Home Today
as performed by Mary Black
My youngest son came home today.
His friends marched with him all the way.
The pipes and drum beat out the time,
While 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, a daughter, and two sons,
A man he would have lived and died,
Till by a bullet sanctified.
Now he's a saint, or so they say –
They brought their young saint home today.
Above the narrow Belfast streets
An Irish sky looks down and weeps
At children's blood in gutters spilled
In dreams of freedom unfulfilled
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 pipe and drum beat out the time,
While in his box of polished pine,
Like dead meat on a butcher's tray,
My youngest son came home today.
– And this time he's home to stay.
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