Very dubious taste, and I don't know who wrote them, but, here's the words for the No Man's Land parady...

NOT WILLIE MCBRIDE
Have you heard of that song about Willie McBride?
If I hear it again It'll turn me inside,
for it's sung in the Springtime and sung in the Fall,
But mostly by people who shouldn't sing at all.
You go down to the pub on a Saturday night
For a pint and a song and things are all right,
Til some drunken punter comes up by your side
Saying: 'Shing ush that shong about Willie Mcbride.'

Well you say you don't know it but that will not do,
For now he's determined to sing it to you.
Then he spills half your drink and starts off in a key
That was never invented on land or on sea.
And as time goes on sure the whole thing gets worse,
For you now realise that he knows every verse.
With his arm round your shoulder, 'cos now he's your friend
He's determined to sing the damned thing to the end.

Did they sing the song badly, did they sink their pints gladly?
Did the drunks fall asleep as they lowered them down?
Did the barmen shout 'Last drinks!' in chorus,
And did the punters say 'Thank Christ it's over'?

Well you go to the loo for a quarter of an hour
And you watch the TV in the old public bar.
Then you come back, thinking he that must tire,
But he's still going on about gas and barbed wire.
Then ten minutes later you're still in a trance
While he's up to his armpits in the green fields of France
The punters are quiet, you'll not hear a peep,
For now you realise that they've all gone to sleep.

Now listen McBride, what the hell is your game
With that photograph stuck in a mouldy old frame?
You can buy them at Smithfield for ten pence a throw,
So what's all the fuss about, I'd like to know?
And what's all the fuss about barbed wire and smoke?
Sure, you shouldn't have joined if you can't take a joke!
And who gives a toss where the red poppies dance?
O Willie McBride, won't you give us a chance?

O Willie McBride, why the hell did you die?
The trouble you'd saved had you come back alive,
And got a good job or signed on the brew,
So we'd not have to listen to songs about you!
Now it's the last verse, and I'm glad that your dead,
With the green fields of France piled up over your head,
For the trouble you've caused since the day that you died,
Oh, shooting's too good for you, Willie BcBride.

From a singaround at the Middle Bar Singer's winter re-union at the Red Lion, Sidford, in February this year ^^^