| Well, you were Davids father
|
| and he was your only son
|
| and the new cut peats a-rotting
|
| and the work is left undone
|
| Because an old man is weeping
|
| and old man in pain
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| for David, his son David
|
| that will not come again
|
| Oh, the letters he wrote you
|
| I can see them still
|
| not a word of the fighting
|
| just the sheep on the hill
|
| and how you should get
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| the crops in
|
| ´ere the year gets stormier
|
| and the bosh have got his body
|
| and I was his officer
|
| Well, you were only Davids father
|
| but I had fifty sons
|
| when we went up in the evening
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| under the arch of the guns
|
| and we came back at twilight
|
| oh God I heard them call
|
| to me for help and pity
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| that I could not help at all
|
| Oh never will I forget you
|
| my men that trusted me
|
| more my sons than your fathers
|
| for they could only see
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| the little helpless babies
|
| and the young men in their pride
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| they could not see you dying
|
| and hold as you died
|
| happy, young and gallant
|
| they saw their first born go
|
| but not strong limbs broken
|
| and the beautiful men brought low
|
| the pitious writhing bodies
|
| they screamed «Don't leave me, Sir!»
|
| for they were only your fathers
|
| but I was your officer |