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Billy Bragg |
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The Internationale |
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My Youngest Son Came Home Today |
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My youngest son came home today |
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His friends marched with him all the way |
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The fife and drum beat out the time |
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While in his box of polished pine |
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Like dead meat on a butcher's tray |
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My youngest son same home today |
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My youngest son was a fine young man |
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With a wife, a daughter and two sons |
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And a man he would have lived and died |
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Till by a bullet sanctified |
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Now he's a saint or so they say |
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They brought their young saint home today |
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An irish sky looks down and weeps |
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Upon the narrow belfast streets |
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At children's blood in gutters spilled |
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In dreams of glory unfulfilled |
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As part of freedom's price to pay |
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My youngest son came home today |
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My youngest son came home today |
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His friends marched with him all the way |
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The pipe and drum beat out the time |
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While in his box of polished pine |
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Like dead meat on a butcher's tray |
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My youngest son came home today |
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And this time he's here to stay |
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Words and music: eric bogle |
