Witness to My Own Wake

My mother speaks some quiet words to the pine box where I lay.

My father's eyes too dry to weep, silent hopes now dashed away.

My sisters sing a heartfelt song of a youth who was born to break.

And an elderly priest, makes the sign of the cross.

I'm a witness to my own wake!

 

As I look back at my life, at the boy that lay before me.

Never had a chance to be a man.

For the girl that got away, the son to keep his name.

He was cut down in the prime of his life.

 

Will they remember my name?

Did I prove my worth?

As I stand above,

I'm a witness to my own wake.

 

Remembering the road, the journey stretched before me.

I embarked with a feeling of dread.

No mother should outlive the child that she bore,

or watch the battle deprive him of breath.

 

Will they remember my name? 

Did I prove my worth? 

As I stand above, 

I'm a witness to my own wake.

 

So bury me now, six feet down.

Have a pint for me.

Raise your glass, for the past.

Make it a bloody fine wake.

 

Lay me down on a Sunday, in the early morning mist.

Where the cold Atlantic meets the western sky,

Sound the pipes and the trumpets, one last time.

Raise the banners in remembrance of me.

 

Will they remember my name? 

Did I prove my worth? 

As I stand above, 

I'm a witness to my own wake.