My Youngest Son Came Home Today Eric Bogle

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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 same home today

My youngest son was a fine young man
With a wife, a daughter and a son
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 saint home today

Above the narrow Belfast streets
An Irish sky looks down and weeps
On children's blood in gutters spilled
For 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 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
And this time he's home to stay

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