No Man’s Land (The Green Fields of France) Eric Bogle Well, how do you do, Private William McBride, Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside? And rest for awhile in the warm summer sun, I’ve been walking all day, and I’m nearly done. And I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen, When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916, Well, I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean, Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?   Did they Beat the drum slowly, did the sound the pipes lowly? Did the rifles fire o’er you as they lowered you down? Did the bugles play The Last Post in chorus? Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?   And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind, In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined? And, though you died back in 1916, To that loyal heart are you always nineteen? Or are you a stranger without even a name, Forever enshrined behind some glass pane, In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained, And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame?   The sun’s shining down on these green fields of France; The warm wind blows gently, and the red poppies dance. The trenches have vanished long under the plough, No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now. But here in this graveyard that’s still No Man’s Land, The countless white crosses in mute witness stand, To man’s blind indifference to his fellow man, And a whole generation who were butchered and damned.   And I can’t help but wonder, now, Willie McBride, Do all those who lie here know why they died? Did you really believe them when they told you The Cause? Did you really believe that this war would end wars? Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame, The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain, For Willie McBride, it all happened again, And again, and again, and again, and again.