The Foggy Dew

From These Hills

(Traditional)

'Twas 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 its loud tattoo
But the Angelus bells o'er the Liffey's swells
Rang out in the foggy dew.
Right proudly high in Dublin town
Hung they out the 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 Britannia'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 Suvla's waves
or the fringe of the grey North Sea
But had they died by Pearse's side,
or had fought with Valera true
Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep,
'neath the shroud of the Foggy Dew.
The bravest fell, and the requiem 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 but few
Who bore the fight that freedom's light
Might shine through the Foggy Dew.
And down the glen I rode again,
And my heart would grieve full sore
For I parted then with valiant men
Whom I never shall see more
But to and fro in my dreams I go
As I'd kneel and pray for you
For slavery fled, out of glorious dread,
When you fell in the Foggy Dew.


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