Why do your still march old man,
With medals on your chest?
Why do you still grieve old man,
For those friends you laid to rest?
Why do your eyes gleam old man,
When you hear those bugles blow?
Tell me why you cry old man,
For those days long ago?

I’ll tell you why I march young man,
With medals on my chest.
I’ll tell you why I grieve young man,
For those I laid to rest.
Through misty fields of gossamer silk
Come visions of distant times
When the boys of tender age
Marched forth to distant climes.
We buried them in blanken shroud
Their young flesh scorched and blackened,
A communal grave, newly gouged,
In blood-stained gorse and bracken.
And you ask me why I march, young man?
I march to remind you all,
That but for those apple-blossom youths
You’d never have known freedom at all.

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