Foggy Dew

As down the glen one Easter morn, to a city fair rode I.

There armed lines of marching men in squadron passed me by.

No pipe did hum and no battle drum did sound it's dread tattoo,

But the angelus bell o'er the Liffey swell rang out through the foggy dew.

Twas England bad our wild geese go that small nations might be free.

But their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves on the fringe of the great North Sea.

Oh, had they died by Pearse's side or fought with Cathal Brugha,

Their names we'd keep where the Fenians sleep 'neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

Right proudly high over Dublin Town they hung out the flag of war.

'Twas better to die neath an Irish sky than at Suvla or Sud El Bar.

And from the plains of royal Neath strong men came hurrying through,

While Britannia's sons with their long range guns sailed in through the foggy dew.

But the bravest fell and the requiem bell rung mournfully and clear

For those who died that Eastertide in the springtime of the year.

While the world did gaze with deep amaze at those fearless men but few

Who bore the fight that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew.