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, no battle drum did sound it's dread tattoo.
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey 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 Sulva 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 through the foggy dew.

'Twas England bade our Wild Geese 'Go, that small nations might be free,'
But their lonely graves are by Sulva'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.

But the bravest fell and the requiem bell rang mournfully and clear
for those who died that Easter tide, 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.