Membership Level: Basic
Well how do you do Private William McBride. Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside.
And I’ll rest for a while ’neath the warm summer sun. I’ve been walking all day and I’m nearly done.
And I see by your gravestone you were only 19. When you joined the glorious fallen back 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 play the fyfe lowly. Did the rifles fire o’er you, as they lowere you down.
Did the bugles play the Last Post in chorus. DFid the pipes play the Flowers of the Forrest.
And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind. In some faithful heart does your memory enshrine.
And though you died back in 1916, in some faithful heart are you always 19.
Or are you a stranger without even name. Enshrined forever behind the glass frame, of an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained and fading to yellow in a brown leather frame.
Ah, the sun’s shining now on these green fields of France. The warm winds blow gently and the red poppies dance. The trenches have vanished under the plough. No gas no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
But here in the graveyard it’s still No-man’s Land. The countless white crosses in mute witness stand, to man’s blind indifference to his fellow man. To a whole generation who were butchered and damned.
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.
Well the suffering and the sorrow and the glory, the shame. The killing the dying, it was all done in vain.
For Willie McBride, it all happened again. And again, and again, and again and again.