DmFC
My youngest son came home today
DmFC
His friends marched with him all the way.
DmCF
A fife and drum beat out the time.
DmCF
While in his box of polished pine,
DmAmDmAm
Like dead meat on a butcherʼs tray,
DmCDm
My youngest son came home today.
My youngest son was a fine young man,
With a wife, a daughter, and two sons.
As a man he would have lived and died,
Until by a bullet, sanctified.
Now heʼs a saint, or so they say,
They brought their young saint home today.
Above the narrow Belfast streets,
An Irish sky looks down and weeps
At childrenʼs blood in gutters spilled,
And dreams of glory unfulfilled.
As part of freedomʼs price to pay,
My youngest son came home today.
My youngest son came home today.
His friends marched with him all the way.
A fife and drum beat out the time.
While in his box of polished pine,
Like dead meat on a butcherʼs tray,
My youngest son came home today.
DmCDm
And this time heʼs home...to stay.
