| Well, how do you do young Willie McBride?
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| Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside?
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| And rest for awhile in the warm summer sun
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| I’ve been walking all day, and I’m nearly done
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| I see by your gravestone, you were only nineteen
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| When you joined the great call-up in nineteen sixteen
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| And I hope you died quick, and I hope you died clean
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| Or young Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?
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| (chorus)
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| Did they beat the drums slowly?
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| Did they play the fife loudly?
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| Did they play the death 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?
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| Did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind?
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| In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?
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| Although you died back in nineteen-sixteen
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| In that faithful heart are you forever nineteen
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| Or are you a stranger without even a name?
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| Enclosed and forever behind a glass frame
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| In an old photograph, torn, battered and stained
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| And faded to yellow, in a brown leather frame
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| Well the sun, now it shines, on the green fields of France
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| As the warm summer breeze, that makes the red poppies dance
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| And look how the sun shines from under the clouds
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| There’s no gas, no barbwire, there’s no guns firing now
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| But here in this graveyard that’s still no-man's land
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| The countless white crosses stand mute in the sand
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| To man’s blind indifference to his fellow man
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| To a whole generation, that was butchered and damned
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| Young Willie McBride, I can’t help wondering why
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| Do those that lie here know why that they died?
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| And did they believe when they answered the call
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| Did they really believe that this war would end war?
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| The sorrow, the suffering, the glory, the pain
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| The killing and dying were all done in vain
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| Young Willie McBride, it all happened again
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| And again, and again, and again, and again |