Nine lives

Now when I hear that music,

I want to sing along,

be part of what they’re singing of,

be something in the song.

To be the boy who fought at Bute,

or died at Donegal,

to take aim on the Turkish beach

and be the last to fall.



It’s one for the history.

One for what you’re told.

One for the wishful thoughts.

One for getting old.

One for the dream of heaven.

One for the heart that’s young.

One for God and one for the cause.

And one for the song that’s sung.



Which life would you like to lead,

the soldier or the squire?

Which part would you like to sing,

the solo or the choir?

To be the lonesome trumpeter

across the fields at dawn?

Or the massed bands of the legions

before their ranks are torn?



It’s one for the cabin boy.

One for the lad called Tom.

One for the terrorist.

One for the homemade bomb.

One for the dreams of freedom.

One for the ancient call.

One for the living, one for the dead.

One more and I’ve used them call.



It’s one for the heresy.

One for how you’re conned.

One for distraction.

One for the distant blond.

It’s one for the bet, one for the drink.

One for the whole night long.

One to keep for the one you love.

And one for the song that’s sung.



One to keep for the one you love.

And one for the song that’s sung.