Song: Soldiers Of The Somme Poem by Dave SmithWhite

Oh me boys, me boys that died!
Gallant sons of English pride.
Not for you, the joys of life,
But an early death, by war and strife.

Pump the skin and fill the pipe.
Beat the drum and blow the fife.
Squeeze young fruit not too over-ripe,
For a bloody libation, as slaughter is rife.

So play, me boys, your marching song.
I still hear it all day long.
All your faces now are gone,
And I am so forlorn.

Oh me boys, me boys that died!
Your family weeps, but we never cried.
Could you speak from the other side;
Would you wish you were never born?

Out there on that wasted land.
Ain't no place for a living man.
Hell on earth and we are the damned,
Cut down in our prime like corn.

Chopped up ground; a sinking quagmire,
Of stinking corpses, with a stench that is dire.
All fall down with none left to admire,
How well the fool sheep were shorn.

Melting lines to free rapid fire.
Find your range and aim no higher.
Tommies hanging on the wire.
What a dread sight at dawn!

So play me boys, your marching tune.
Sing, me boys, like you did in June.
For a near half year of fear and doom;
Soldiers of the Somme.

So play me boys, your marching tune.
Sing, me boys, as lovers might croon.
Gallows wit, ill met by gloom,
Soldiers of the Somme.

I'll make no noise, but cast the rune.
For when fate toys, we mortals swoon.
If my day is coming, I pray it is soon.
Without you, how can I go on?

So play me boys, your marching song.
Will I join up with your ghostly throng?
And fill my cup as if I too belong,
With the Soldiers of the Somme.
The Soldiers of the Somme!