All eyes were turned to look and see
As victory smith rode in.
All eyes were turned to look and see,
To find out where he’d been.
He’s been to war, he’s been to war,
Old hens cackled with glee.
He’s won our war, he’s won our war.
How happy he must be.
How sad and worn he looks,
He’s hung in the saddle low,
How sad and tired he looks,
And his eyes speak of woe.
Oh, soldier son, oh soldier son,
Tell us what did you see?
Oh saddle son, oh saddle son,
What was it like to be.
What was it like to be you ask
Ask any of your sons.
It was hell to be put after,
And more hell before the guns.
Oh fools of home, oh fools of home,
Victorious spirits high, spend your spirits not on winning,
But on those who had to die.
I see you look with wonder,
This can’t be victory.
I bring no songs of glory,
Or tales of gallantry.
I bring only a bloody sword and tales of deep regret,
The songs of budding men, and the death we’ll not forget.
So when you think of your victory,
think what a soldier must give.
Ask if it’s more important to win a war,
Or have a child to live.
No eyes were turned to look and see,
as another smith rode in.
No eyes were turned to look and see,
They knew where he had been.

HOME