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The Foggy Dew

As 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 [bad word] 
Did sound out its loud tattoo.
But the angelus bell o’er the Liffey’s swell,
Rang out through the foggy dew.

Right proudly high over Dublin town
They hung 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,
Brave men came hurrying through,
While Britannia’s sons with their long-range guns,
Sailed into the foggy dew.

But the night fell black and the rifle’s crack,
Made perfidious Albion reel.
In tha leaden rain seven tongues of flame,
Did shine o’er the lines of steel.
By each shining blade a prayer was said,
That to Ireland her sons would be [bad word] 
And when morning broke, still the war flag shook out,
Its folds in the foggy dew.

It was England bade our Wild Geese go,
That small nations might be free.
But their lonely graves are by Suvla’s waves
On the fringe of the great North Sea.
Oh, had they died by Pearse’s side
Or had fought along with brave Cathal [bad word] 
Their names we would keep where the Fenians sleep,
‘Neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

But the bravest fell and the requiem bell,
Rang out mournfully and clear,
For those who died that Eastertide
In the springtime of the year.
While the world did gaze in deep amaze,
At those fearless men and few,
Who bore the fight that freedom’s light,
Might shine through the foggy dew.

As back through the glen I rode again,
And my heart with grief was sore.
For I parted then with valiant men,
I ever will see no more,
And to and fro in my dreams I go,
And I’ll kneel and I’ll pray for you,
For slavery fled, oh you rebel dead,
When you fell in the foggy dew.