The Foggy Dew

'Twas down the glen one Easter morn
to a city fair rode I
as armed lines of marching men
in squadrons passed me by.
No pipe did hum, nor battle drum
did sound its brave tattoo,
but the Angelus bell by the Liffey swell
rang out in the foggy dew.

Right proudly high over Dublin town
they hung out the flags 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 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
on the fringe of the great North Sea.
Oh, but had they died at Pearse's side
or fought with Valera true,
their graves we would keep where the Fenian sleep
'neath the shroud 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,
but 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.