|
THE
FOGGY DEW
(As sung by Hugh MacDonald)
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 drum
did sound its loud tattoo,
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's swell
rang out through the foggy dew.
Right proudly high in Dublin
Town
they flung 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 England's Huns with their long-range guns
poured hell 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 great North Sea;
O, had they died by Pearse's side,
or had fought with noble cathal Brugha,
Their names we'd keep where the Fianna sleep,
'neath the shroud of the foggy dew.
But the bravest fell, and
the requiem bell
rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Eastertide
in the springtime of their year;
While the world did gaze, with deep amaze,
at these fearless men, but few,
Who bore the fight that Freedom's light
might shine through the foggy dew.
|
