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My name is Francis Toliver, I come from Liverpool.
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Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school.
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To Belgium and to Flanders, Germany to here.
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I fought for King and country I love dear.
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Twas Christmas in the trenches, where the frost so bitter hung.
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The frozen fields of France were still, no Christmas song was sung.
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Our families back in England were toasting us that day,
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Their brave and glorious lads so far away.
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I was lying with my mess mate on the cold and rocky ground.
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When across the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound.
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Says I, "now listen up me boys." Each soldier strained to hear
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As one young German voice sang out so clear.
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"He's singing bloody well y'know," my partner says to me.
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Soon one by one each German voice joined in in harmony.
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The cannons rested silent, and the gas clouds rolled no more.
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As Christmas brought us respite from the war.
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As soon as they were finished, and a reverent pause was spent,
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"God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" struck up some lads from Ghent.
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Oh the next they sang was "Stille Nacht", 'tis Silent Night says I.
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And in two tongues one song filled up that sky.
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"There's someone coming towards us", the front line sentry cried.
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All sights were fixed on one lone figure trudging from their side.
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His truce flag like a Christmas star shone on that plain so bright
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As he bravely strolled unarmed into the night.
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Then one by one on either side walked into no-man's land.
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With neither gun nor bayonet we met there hand to hand.
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We shared some secret brandy and we wished each other well.
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And in a flare-lit soccer game we gave 'em hell.
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We traded chocolates, cigarettes and photographs from home.
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These sons and fathers far away from families of their own.
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Young Sanders played the squeezebox and they had a violin.
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This curious and unlikely band of men.
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Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once more.
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With sad farewells we each began to settle back to war.
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But the question haunted every heart that lived that wondrous night.
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"Whose family have I fixed within my sights?"
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?Twas Christmas in the trenches, where the frost so bitter hung.
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The frozen fields of France were warmed as songs of peace were sung.
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For the walls they kept between us to exact the work of war
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Had been crumbled and were gone forever more.
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My name is Francis Toliver, in Liverpool I dwell.
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Each Christmas comes since World War I, I've learned its lessons well.
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For the ones who call the shots won't be among the dead and lame,
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And on each end of the rifle we're the same.
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