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eric bugle
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the green fields of france
Well, how do you do, young Willie McBride,
Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside?
And rest for awhile neath the warm summer sun,
I've been walking all day, and I'm nearly done.
I see by your gravestone you are only 19
When you joined the great fallen in 1916,
I hope you died well and I hope you died clean
Or, young Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?
Did they Beat the drum slowly, did the play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the death march as they lowered you down?
And did the band play The Last Post and chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?
did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?
And, though you died back in 1916,
In that faithful heart are you forever 19?
Or are you a stranger without even a name,
Enclosing forever behind the glass frame,
In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained,
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And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame?
The sun now it shines on the green fields of France;
Theres a warm summer breeze, it makes the red poppies dance.
And look how the sun shines from under the clouds;
Theres no gas no barbed wire,theres no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard it's still No Man's Land,
The countless white crosses stand mute in the sand,
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man.
To a whole generation that were butchered and damned.
Ah young Willie McBride I can't help wonder why,
Do those that lie here know why did they die?
And did they believe when they answered 'The Cause?'
Did they really believe that this war would end wars?
Well the sorrow, the suffering, the glory, the pain
The killing, and dying, it was all done in vain,
For young Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.
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