My youngest son came home today His friends marched with him all the way The pipes 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 My youngest son was a fine young man With a wife, a daughter and two sons A man he would have lived and died Till 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 In dreams of freedom 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 The pipe 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 And this time he'shome to stay