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He's twenty-five; he's sick and tired, |
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It's time to try the other side, |
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The B&I to paradise, |
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To sergeants and their men. |
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He's never been to Dun Na Ri, |
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Combed the beaches after three, |
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Chips and beer and greenery, |
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Brothers one and all. |
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He signed and took the soldiers crest, |
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A decent man in battle dress, |
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When bugles blow you do your best, |
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For sergeants and their men. |
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All for the roses, over the sea. |
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He's way ahead; he's second to none, |
|
With his fabrique nationali gun, |
|
Marching bands with Saxon blood, |
|
Sergeants and their men. |
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They landed with the sinking sun, |
|
An invasion by the media run, |
|
They covered up and they kissed with tongues, |
|
Sergeants and their men. |
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But the phantom gunner danced the end, |
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And battered human bodies bled, |
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They butchered us, we butchered them, |
|
Sergeants and their men. |
|
All for the roses, over the sea, |
|
All for the roses, Finglas boys to be. |
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Now a flower of sleep grows on his grave, |
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Forgotten soon the cowards and the brave, |
|
But the coldest hate still lives today, |
|
For sergeants and their men. |
|
All for the roses, over the sea, |
|
All for the roses, Finglas boys to be. |
