The Foggy Dew

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

There Armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed

me by

No pipe did hum nor battle drum did sound its dread

tattoo

But the Angelus Bell o'er the Liffey's swell rang out

through 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 Meath strong men came

hurrying through

While Britannia's Huns, with their long range guns

sailed in through the foggy dew

'Twas England bade our wild geese go, that "small

nations might be free";

Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves or the fringe

of the great North Sea.

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

Cathal Brugha*

Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep, 'neath

the shroud of the foggy dew.

Oh the night fell black, and the rifles' crack made

perfidious Albion reel

In the leaden rain, seven tongues of flame did shine

o'er the lines of steel

By each shining blade a prayer was said, that to

Ireland her sons be true

But when morning broke, still the war flag shook out

its folds the foggy dew

Oh the bravest fell, and the Requiem bell rang

mournfully and clear

For those who died that Eastertide in the spring time

of the year

And the world did gaze, in deep amaze, at those

fearless men, but few,

Who bore the fight that freedom's light might shine

through the foggy dew

As 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 kneel and pray

for you,

For slavery fled, O glorious dead, when you fell in the

foggy dew.