My youngest son 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 same 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: eric bogle