Bring Him Home
Bring him home, he’ll not mind
The noise from plane;
Lay him down on metal hard, he
Cannot feel the pain
Wash his brow and comb his hair
He cannot do it now, bonny lad
Of twenty summers, still with
Youth’s sweet glow
Bring him home to father wrought,
And weeping mother’s breast, with
Look of death’s confusion, writ plain
Upon his chest
Sound for him all honours, of
Trumpet, march and flag, and
Dress him full in colours, let
Not his pallor brag
And when at home they speak of
Him, yet do not know his name,
Then sound for him with mighty
Shame, all who bring him blame
For they that sleep from warrior’s
Game, ask not for gold or fame,
But just to lie in slumber’s tomb,
And rest their golden mane
Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015
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