THE FOGGY DEW
(Fr. P. O'Neill)

'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.

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I haven't heard Sinead O'Connor's version but here's what I've got written down.

Tony