Where I sometimes walk my dog up on Salisbury Plain
we hear the distant bark of guns, feel the sting of rain.
The skylark sings out of sight, the buzzard mews alone
the green Spring hills of Wiltshire sigh
for the men that won't come home.
And in the town from where they drilled, lived and loved and played
their loved ones take the dreadful news of the sacrifice they've paid
In Morrison's the check out girl speaks in quieter tone
no fifteen p a litre off
for the men that won't come home.
At the Crown the beers and tears in equal measure poured
not gone for long but now for ever but never to be ignored.
Six less shadows never cast will never ever roam
won't the Plain surely mourn
for the men that won't come home.
Many armies go to war trained on green turf for sand
I walk my dog with freedom where mass attack is planned
I'll never understand the cause but give the dog the bone
I'll shed a tear and say a prayer
for the men that can't come home.
