John Condon

Just a day, another day, beneath the Belgian sun,

Past grave on grave, row on row,

Until I see the name John Condon

Carved in stone, with harp and crown,

Little crosses in the ground, and standing there,

My silent prayer is for a boy who died a soldier.

Wee lad who’ll not grow old,

heroes that don’t come home,

Here they lie in Belgian fields and Picardy

Just a recruit, in soldiers boots,

From Ireland’s shores to here,

This living Hell, this Poelkappele,

Where young men fell, like you, John Condon.

And all around, the harp and crown,

The crosses in the ground stand up in proof,

The bitter truth, the waste of youth that lies forgotten!

Chorus

Now tell me, John, before I go on,

What did you come here for,

With Ireland’s bold, your life untold,

14 years old, to die a soldier?

And all around, the harp and crown,

The crosses in the ground – What cause was served?

So undeserved!

Heroes that don’t come home,

Sing out for all their souls,

Here they lie in Belgian fields and Picardy.