Well you go to the bar of a Saturday night
For a pint and a song and sure everythin's all right
Til some drunken bastard sits down by your side
And asks for the song about Willie McBride
Well you say you don't know it, but that just won't do
For now he's determined to sing it to you.
With his arm round your shoulder, for now he's your friend
The hoor's gonna sing the damn thing til the end

Well you go to the toilets for a quarter of an hour
And you have an ould half'n in the old public bar
And when you return, thinking that he has tired
he's up to his bollocks in gas and barbed wire
And ten minutes later your still in a trance
For he's up to his ochsters in the Green Fields of France
And searching around now you won't hear a peep
For the punters by now, Christ, they've all gone to sleep.

Oh Willie McBride, why the hell did you die?
The trouble you'da saved if you'd come back to life
If you'd got a good job or signed on the brew
We'd not have to listen to songs about you
But, now in fairness sure I'm glad that you're dead
With the Green Fields of France piled up over your head
For the trouble that you caused since the day that you died
Ah sure shootin's too good for you, Willie McBride