Two babes were born one happy morn,
They came with love divine;
And a mother smiled on the River Thames,
And a mother smiled on the Rhine.

These children grew so brave and true,
Each mother said, ‘how fine!’
And hearts were glad on the River Thames,
And hearts were glad on the Rhine.

But one sad day so people say,
Their rulers tried to shine,
And one lad heard the call of The Thames,
And the other the call of the Rhine.

These two brave sons, they raised their guns,
As they marched in martial line;
And a mother sighed on the River Thames,
And a mother sighed on the Rhine.

On the battle plain where the bullets rain,
These lads formed into line,
And hearts were sad on the River Thames,
And hearts were sad on the Rhine.

They took their sight in the bitter fight,
Their aim was really fine;
And a mother prayed on the River Thames,
And a mother prayed on the Rhine.

Two noble sons fell by their guns,
Their names in glory shine;
And a mother weeps on the River Thames,
And a mother weeps on the Rhine.

So the Thames so fine and the river Rhine,
Flow into the same great sea;
And they seem to say as they kiss the spray,
"Oh, that men were as wise as we!"

THE GREEN FIELDS OF FRANCE

Well how do you do, young Willie McBride?
Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside?
And rest for a while ‘neith the warm summer sun;
I’ve been walking all day and I’m nearly done.

I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen,
When you joined the great Fallen in 1916 –
I hope you died well and I hope you died clean,
Or young Willie McBride was it slow and obscene?
Did they beat the drums slowly, did they play the fife lowly;
Did they play the dead march as they lowered you down.
Did the band play The Last Post and chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?

Did you leave e’re a wife or a sweetheart behind,
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?
Although you died back in 1916
In that faithful heart are you forever nineteen?
Or are you a stranger with only a name,
enshrined here forever behind a glass frame,
In an old photograph that’s all battered and stained,
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame.

The sun now it shines on the green fields of France,
The warm summer breeze makes the red poppies dance;
And look how the sun shines from under the clouds.
There’s no gas, no barbed wire, there’s no guns firing now;
But here in this graveyard it’s still no-man’s land;
A thousand white crosses stand mute in the sand,
To man’s blind indifference to his fellow man,
To a whole generation that was butchered and damned.

Ah, young Willie McBride I can’t help wonder why,
Did all who died here know for what did they die;
And did they believe when they answered the call.
Did they really believe that this war would end wars?
The sorrow, the suffering, the glory, the pain,
The killing, the dying were it all done in vain,
For, young Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again and again and again and again.

Eric Bogle’s poetry/song The Green Fields of France is generally regarded as perhaps the finest damnations of brother-wars ever composed. It finds its equal however in Pat McGill’s Letters in the Trenches composed in August 1916.