The weight of him on our shoulders,
The faint whiff of gunpowder smoulders,
It’s almost as if my lead bearing heart,
Would stop with this solemn task.
We step in, out, in, out,
These timings are not a shout,
To the tune of the bagpipes playing,
To attention he is marching, laying.
Our arms underneath him for support,
To take him to his last call of port,
No longer will he be a trencher,
As the padre swings his golden censer.
The memories of him will never fade,
As he is carried to his last parade,
He has fought in line with his brothers,
And today says goodbye to his lovers.
We raise a glass to his name,
Because he lived without any shame,
Now in peace he lies in restful sleep,
And for him we shall forever weep.