Why do you march old man,
With medals on your chest?
Why do you grieve old man, for
The 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 the boys of tender age marched forth
To distant lines.
We buried them in a blanket shroud,
Their young flesh scorched and blackened,
A communal grave, newly gouged in blood stained
Gorse and bracken;
And you ask me why I march young man â “
I march to remind you all.
That for those apple-blossomed youths, you'd
Never have known freedom at all.
Anonymous
Published in â Å“This Englandâ ?, Autumn 2000
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