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My Youngest Son Came Home Today Eric Bogle
[Dm]My youngest son came ho[F]me toda[C]y
[Dm]His friends marched with him a[F]ll the wa[C]y.
[Dm]A fife and drum beat ou[C]t the t[F]ime.
[Dm]While in his box of pol[C]ished p[F]ine,
[Dm]Like dea[Am]d meat on a [Dm]butcher'[Am]s tray,
[Dm]My youngest son came [C]home to[Dm]day.
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 he's 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 children's blood in gutters spilled,
And 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.
A 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 came home today.
[Dm]And this time he's ho[C]me...to [Dm]stay
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