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O’NEILL, Charles



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 nor battle drum did sound its loud tattoo

But the Angelus bell o’er the Liffey 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 Sedd El Bahr

And from the plains of Royal Meath strong men came hurrying through

While Britannia’s Huns, 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 shore of the Great North Sea

Oh, had they died by Pearse’s side or fought with Cathal Brugha

Their graves we will keep where the Fenians sleep ’neath the shroud of the foggy dew


Oh the bravest fell, and the requiem bell rang mournfully and clear

For those who died that Eastertide in the spring time 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


Ah, back through the glen I rode again and my heart with grief was sore

For I parted then with valiant men whom I never shall see more

But to and fro in my dreams I go and I’d kneel and pray for you,

For slavery f led, O glorious dead, When you fell in the foggy dew.