Youngest Son Lyrics

My youngest song came home today His friends marched with him all the way The fife 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 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 glory 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 Words and music by Eric Bogle Appears on Billy Bragg's _The Internationale_ and some album(s) of Eric Bogle's