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 Gathal Bruga, 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.

Ah, back through the glen I rode again And my heart with grief was sore For I parted then with valiant men Whom I never shall see more But to and fro in my dreams I go And I'd kneel and pray for you, For slavery fled, O glorious dead, When you fell in the foggy dew.