Why do you still march Old Man, with medals on your chest?

Why do you grieve Old Man, for those friends you laid to rest?

Why do your eyes still gleam Old Man, when you hear the bugles blow?

Tell me, why do you cry old man for those days so long ago?

I'll tell you why I march 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 boys of tender age lost lives, and mothers pined.

We buried them in a blanket shroud, their young flesh scorched and blackened.

A communal grave, newly gouged in bloodstained gorse and bracken.

And you ask me why I march young man - I march to remind you all

That for those apple-blossomed youths, you would never have known freedom at all.