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Roger Whittaker

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Roger Whittaker

Dover to Calais

I was twenty-two
spring was on its way,
every sky was blue
and every months was may.

Calais in the sun wine and comfiture.
All the world to see but all I saw was you.
You surf me coups of tea
with skoal's from your Papa.
Who stud way he could see,
behind the Bistro bar.

I asked you for your name,
you laughed and said: Marie.
Could I see you again?
You smiled and said: Me oui.

Every Sunday I took the ferry.
Every Sunday papa not knowing,
just eighteen miles each way,
from Dover to Calais.

The more we fall in love.
The bolder we became.
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I asked you for your hand.
You said: Oh oui je t'aime.

Now after all these years,
Papa has past away.
Oh how he loved us both.
He wrote to know to me to say.

Every Sunday
I watched you meet her right here.
Every Sunday I knew you loved her,
for it's eighteen miles each way,
from Dover to Calais.

Every Sunday
trough any weather to you.
Every Sunday papa was waiting
and it's eighteen miles each way,
from Dover to Calais,
from Dover to Calais,
from Dover to Calais.