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Well how do you do young Willie McBride, do you mind if I sit here by your graveside
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And rest for a while 4neath the warm summer sun. I4ve been working all day and I4m nearly done.
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I see by your gravestone you were only 19 when you joined the great fallen in 1916.
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I hope you died well and I hope you died clean, or young Willie McBride was it slow and obscene?
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Did they beat the drum slowly, did they play the fife lowly?
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Did they sound the dead march as they lowered you down?
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Did the band play The Last Post and chorus?
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Did the pipes play The Flowers Of The Forest?
Did you leave e4er a wife or a sweetheart behind, in some faithful heart is your memory enshrined.
Although you died back in 1916, in some faithful heart you are forever 19.
Or are you a stranger wihtout even a name, enclosed in forever behind a glass frame.
In an old photograph, torn and battered and stained, and faded to yellow in brown leather frame.
The sun now it shines o4er the green fields of France, there4s a warm summer breeze makes the red poppies dance.
And look how the sun shines from under the clouds, there4s no gas or barbed wire, there4s no gun firing now.
But here in the graveyard it4s still no man4s land, the countless white crosses stand mute in the sand.
To man4s blind indifference to his fellow man, to a whole generation we were butchered and damned.
Now young Willie McBride I can4t help wonder why, do all those who lie here know why they died?
And did they believe when they answered the call, did they really believe that this war would end wars?