Fires of Calais

The fishing boats roll out across the dark green Channel water 
As they gather speed for Flanders they cut their nets away 
It's not herring they'll be pulling from the waters on this morning 
They'll reap a bitter harvest from the Fires of Calais

Twenty leagues from France I saw the amber soaked horizon 
In our lee, the Cliffs of Dover fall beneath the Channel waves 
Where waters used to sing a song to sooth the hearts of fishers 
Now, we hear the rolling thunder from the Fires of Calais

As we pull in tight to shore, this armada bent on rescue 
We curse the men behind the desks who sell our lives this way 
Never signed on board to save them from this bloody lack of planning 
That strands these fine young men beneath the Fires of Calais

On the beach, allied confusion will they stand or are they running 
If it's run, where will they go to between the sea and the melee? 
On the flanks, the troop's advancing and with heavy guns, they're firing 
And not a mother's son could save them from the Fires of Calais

In scattered groups along the shore some look towards a safer harbor 
Some fix their eyes upon the flames, that turn the night to day 
Some yet standing, bold and ready, to stoutly guard the rear from "Jerry" 
They'll need no flares to see 'em 'neath the Fires of Calais

I've fished these channel waters since was man enough face them 
For the herring and the flounder I have often hauled away 
But a catch like this I've never had in forty years of sailing 
Saving "Tommies" as they flounder 'neath the Fires of Calais

The fishing boats roll out across the dark green Channel water 
As the gather speed for Flanders they cut their nets away 
It's not herring they'll be pulling from the waters on this morning 
They'll reap the bitter harvest from the Fires of Calais