[Originally by Eric Bogle]



It's an 800 years never ending war

That causes grief, sorrow, suffering and pain - and glory.

But glory for who?

My youngest son came home today

His friends marched with him all the way

The flutes and drums beat out the time

As 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 and a daughter and a son

As a man he would have lived and died

Till by that bullet sanctified

Now he's a saint or so they say

They brought their saint home today.

Above the narrow Belfast streets

An Irish sky looks down and weeps

On childrens' blood in gutters spilled

For dreams of freedom unfilled

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 flutes and drums beat out the time

As in his box of polished pine

Like dead meat on a butcher's tray

My youngest son came home today

But this time he's home to stay.