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THE FOGGY DEW |  |
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I 'Twas down the glen one Easter mornTo 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.
II Right proudly high over Dublin townThey 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.
III 'Twas England bade our wild geese goThat 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.
IV The bravest fell, and the solemn bellRang 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.
(F. P. O'Neill) |
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 Hamish Imlach |
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