The Pipes

The pipes mournful wail Sheds the morning pale. Calling our finest, our best Young lads all to the test. Left behind, the colleens in tears, as lads march off so tender in years. Young blood burns hotter I am told, Sadly their blood will never grow old. Faces will turn pale and cold, fore they are ever lined and old. We found the way to defeat ravage, send them to die before they have age. What did a twenty year corpse know of life? Never a woman, much less a wife. We send them to die before they taste, That which they protect, such a waste. Why not send the old man, the old shrew? Those whose remaining years are but few. Why send our finest, the best? Why put our young lads to the test?