Bring Him Home

Bring him home, he’ll not mind The noise from plane; Lay him down on metal hard, he Cannot feel the pain Wash his brow and comb his hair He cannot do it now, bonny lad Of twenty summers, still with Youth’s sweet glow Bring him home to father wrought, And weeping mother’s breast, with Look of death’s confusion, writ plain Upon his chest Sound for him all honours, of Trumpet, march and flag, and Dress him full in colours, let Not his pallor brag And when at home they speak of Him, yet do not know his name, Then sound for him with mighty Shame, all who bring him blame For they that sleep from warrior’s Game, ask not for gold or fame, But just to lie in slumber’s tomb, And rest their golden mane