by Ian Gordon
You are a lucky bairn sitting in your pram
Dressed up sae bonny by your loving mam
A cheeky smile is on your face
So… welcome to the human race.
Your pram is the colour of your eyes, dark blue
And with a shiny body to me it looks brand new
Who will you look like when you grow older
Will you be the image of your daddy gone to be a soldier?
He’s gone to fight in the Great War for Country and for King
This war it will end all wars, so listen for the church bells’ ring
He will be living in the mud in a rat infested trench
And in his nose the smell of death, a vile and noxious stench.
He will be fighting for his life and others he must kill
With comrades dying all around they must capture yonder hill
The trenches are a vivid red, coloured by the young men’s blood
Boys of only sixteen years lie crying, dying; to be buried in the mud.
The battlefield is a hellish place, the guns roar out like thunder
The piercing screams of dying men, their souls the enemy plunder
“Oh God! Have mercy on me, please save me from this sorrow
Let me see my bairn, just one time, before you take away my tomorrow.”