| Back to a-to-i...

THE FOGGY DEW
    'Twas down the glen one Easter morn
    To 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.

    Right proudly high over Dublin town
    They 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.

    'Twas 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 Gathal Bruga,
      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 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.