Classic Poem

In the Glen where I was young
Blue-bell stems stood close together,
In the evenings dew-drops hung
Clear as glass above the heather.
I'd be sitting on a stone,
Legs above the water swung,
I a laddie all alone,
In the glen where I was young.

Well, the glen is empty now,
And far am I from them that love me,
Water to my knees below,
Shrapnel in the clouds above me;
Watching till I sometimes see,
Instead of death and fighting men,
The people that were kind to me,
And summer in the little glen.

Hold me close until I die,
Lift me up, it's better so;
If, before I go, I cry,
It isn't I'm afraid to go;
Only sorry for the boy
Sitting there with legs aswung
In my little glen of joy,
In the glen where I was young.