THE FOGGY DEW
Fr. O'Neill

'Twas down by the glen one Easter morn,
To a city fair rode I,
When Ireland's lines of marching men
In squadrons passed me by,
No pipe did hum and 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 Sudel Bar.
And from the plains of Royal Meath
Strong men came hurrying through,
While Britannia's sons with their long ranging 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 Valera true,
Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep,
'Neath the hills of the foggy dew.

The braves 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.

A