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, a daughter and two sons A man he would have lived and died Til 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
An old’un but a good’un related to the period of the ‘troubles’ in Ulster. From Eric’s ‘Scraps of Paper’ album.