(anderson/squire/bruford)
Harold land with a wave of his hand said goodbye to all that.
he paid his bills and stopped the milk, then put on his hat.
he tried to say his last farewells as quickly as he could,
promising that he would return, but doubted that he would,
doubted that he would, doubted.
Now he's marching soldiers in the rain as on to war they rode.
a long thin line of human mind, damnation as their load.
in the mud in coldness dark, he'd shiver out his fear,
what disappointing sights he'd seen instead of ones so dear,
instead of ones so dear, so dear.
Going home, he's going home to the land he loved so well.
going home, he fought for two years, never fell.
going home, he's going home,
going home. he's going home.
Harold land with a wave of his hand stood sadly on the stage,
clutching red ribbons from a badge, but he didn't look his age.
only two years had passed between his leaving home and back;
he had lost his love and youth while leading the attack, leading the attack.
In conversation it could be said,
well after war your heart is dead.
well it's not hard to understand,
there is no heart in harold land.