See them marching to the railway in their uniforms and boots,
Self-conscious with their rifles, they’re the army’s new recruits.
Wives, already distant, see their husbands’ awkward stance,
But we cheered them into carriages and sang them off to France.
The day before they left we had a party in the hall,
With dancing to the parish band and plenty beer for all.
The country needs you, lads, we said, we’re proud of everyone,
We’ll build a land that’s fit for heroes on the day you all come home.
There’s no music on a battlefield except for pipes and drums,
That tells you when it’s time to charge and man the Lewis gun.
There’s no music on a battlefield save that which says advance,
And at the village victory ball, dead soldiers’ wives don’t dance.
The say they charged and conquered there, and to a man they stood,
Some crouched and bent like beggars, but giving all they could.
Some mad with thirst, some mad with pain, some crushed beneath the sand,
Some blind, some lame, some just insane, some lost in no-man’s land.
And death poured down from Heaven, and it roared across the ground,
Its stench in every nostril, its voice in every sound.
And he who seemed the strongest wept like a stricken child,
Betrayed in godless trenches, abandoned and defiled.
There’s no music on a battlefield except for pipes and drums,
That tells you when it’s time to charge and man the Lewis gun.
There’s no music on a battlefield save that which says advance,
And at the village victory ball, dead soldiers’ wives don’t dance.
Self-conscious with their rifles, they’re the army’s new recruits.
Wives, already distant, see their husbands’ awkward stance,
But we cheered them into carriages and sang them off to France.
The day before they left we had a party in the hall,
With dancing to the parish band and plenty beer for all.
The country needs you, lads, we said, we’re proud of everyone,
We’ll build a land that’s fit for heroes on the day you all come home.
There’s no music on a battlefield except for pipes and drums,
That tells you when it’s time to charge and man the Lewis gun.
There’s no music on a battlefield save that which says advance,
And at the village victory ball, dead soldiers’ wives don’t dance.
The say they charged and conquered there, and to a man they stood,
Some crouched and bent like beggars, but giving all they could.
Some mad with thirst, some mad with pain, some crushed beneath the sand,
Some blind, some lame, some just insane, some lost in no-man’s land.
And death poured down from Heaven, and it roared across the ground,
Its stench in every nostril, its voice in every sound.
And he who seemed the strongest wept like a stricken child,
Betrayed in godless trenches, abandoned and defiled.
There’s no music on a battlefield except for pipes and drums,
That tells you when it’s time to charge and man the Lewis gun.
There’s no music on a battlefield save that which says advance,
And at the village victory ball, dead soldiers’ wives don’t dance.
inviata da Bernart Bartleby - 25/3/2015 - 14:16
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Parole e musica di W. J. “Bill” Adair, singer songwriter di Glasgow.