Well, how'd you do, Private William McBride?
Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside?
I'll rest here awhile in the warm summer sun,
I've been walking all day, Lord, and I'm nearly done.
And I see by your gravestone you were only 19
When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916--
Well, I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean,
Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?
Did they beat the drum slowly, did they sound the fife lowly,
Did the rifles fire o'er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sing "The Last Post" in chorus?
Did the pipes play "The Flowers of the Forest?"
Did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind?
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined
And, though you died back in 1915,
To that loyal heart are you always 19?
And I can't help but wonder, now Willie McBride,
Do all those who lie here know why they died?
Did you really believe them when they told you 'The Cause?'
Did you really believe that this war would end wars?
Did they beat the drum slowly, did they sound the fife lowly,
Did the rifles fire o'er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sing "The Last Post" in chorus?
Did the pipes play "The Flowers of the Forest?"
Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame
The k**ing, the dying, it was all done in vain,
For Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.