The foggy dew

It was down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair road I.
When Ireland's lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by.
No pipe did hum and no battle drum did sound it's dread tattoo.
But the Angelus bell over Liffey's swell rang out in the foggy dew.

Right proudly high over Dublin town they hung out a flag of war;
it was 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 longrange guns sailed in from the foggy dew.

It was 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 Easter tide 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.