My youngest son came home today.
His friends marched with him all the way.
The pipes and drums 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,
And 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.
An Irish sky looks down and weeps
Upon the narrow Belfast streets
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 here to stay.
His friends marched with him all the way.
The pipes and drums 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,
And 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.
An Irish sky looks down and weeps
Upon the narrow Belfast streets
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 here to stay.
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