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The foggy dew

Twas down the glen one eastermorn to a city fair rode I
when Ireland lines of marching men in squadrones passed me by
no pipe did hum no battle drum did sound Its dread tattoo
but the angeless bell over Liffey’s well rang out in the foggy dew

Right proudly high over Dublin town they hang out a flag of war
twas better to die neath an irish sky than at Suvla or Suddle Bor
and from the planes of royal meath strong men came hurrying trough
while Britannia’s suns with theire long range guns sailed in from the foggy dew

Twas England bade our wild geese go that small nations might be free
theire lonely graves are by Suvla’s waves near the fringe of the gray north see
but had they died by Pearsey’s side or fought with Valera true
theire graves we’d keep where the feanians sleep near the hills of the foggy dew

The bravest fall und the solemn bell rang mornfully and clear
for those who died that eastertide in the springing of the yaer
and the world did gaze in deep amaze for those fearless men and true
who bore the fight that eastertide might shine through the foggy dew