The foggy dew

'Twas down the glen one Easter morn
To a city fair rode I.
When Ireland's line of marching men
In squadrons passed me by.
No pipe did hum, no battle drum,
Did sound its dread tattoo,
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's swell,
Rang out in the foggy dew

Right proudly high over Dublin town,
They hung out a flag of war.
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky,
Than at Suvla or Sud el Bar.
And from the plains of Royal Meath,
Strong men came hurrying through;
While Brittania's sons with their long-range guns,
Sailed in from the foggy dew

'Twas England bade our wild geese go,
That small nations might be free.
Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves,
On the fringe of the grey North Sea.
But had they died by Pearse's side
Or fought with Valera true,
Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep
'Neath the hills of the foggy dew

The bravest fell, and the solemn bell
Rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Eastertide
In the springing of the year
And the world did gaze in deep amaze
At those fearless men and true
Who bore the fight that freedom's light
Might shine through the foggy dew


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