Christmas Eve, House hushed, the lonesome cry echoed through the frosty air
It was said to be but an owl by all assembled there
But they knew it was not, but no, was she who follows even yet
Those of the blood from noble times, of whose ranks her cry foretells a death.
The Christmas dinner was sombre, no mention of the night before
Though the dinner was second to none, no one wanted to eat more,
On Christmas night, a knock was heard, ghostly on the hall door
But no-one answered, knowing no one was there, or would be any more.
A thousand or more miles to the east the shells were raining down
Men smoked cigarettes in the trenches who fought for glory and the Crown
The doomed and doomed, as one shell came, shrapnel cut the air
When the dust had settled, one less soldier was standing there.
The bore him on a stretcher, the doctors did their best
But nothing for him could be done, time would do the rest
Time in its time took him in pain, sure all men were born to die
For that is life and that is war, and no man understands why.
Back home a week later, the postman on the door knocked hard
On opening it he handed the butler an army death telegram card
In a placename they never heard of, he was wounded the night she cried…
The day of the phantom knock at the door, the son of the house died!