Written after watching the Abbey's (Dublin) production of 'Observe the sons
of Ulster as they march bravely to the Somme' on the 2nd of december 1994. This
story of the futility of War coupled with the hopelessness of the soldiers lot,
moved the author to tears.
The Somme
1
They laughed and joked the morning they died.
They played football among the shell holes
and I sat there and watch them with tears in my eyes.
Eight brave young men in the dawn of life.
And they died in that waste which was the Somme.
2
There was barbed wire, mud and death,
and a cold bloodshot sky which hung overhead.
There was smoke and gunfire engulfed in a horrid smell,
That led one to believe they were in the depths of Hell.
And they died in that waste which was the Somme.
3
They said their prayers and their final good-byes,
And in that early morning dawn their 'final battle cry'
"Observe the sons of Ulster as they march..."
As they fixed their bayonets and faced the sky.
And they died in that waste that was the Somme
