“The Foggy Dew“ Irish Rebel Song

As down the glen one Easter morn’, to a city fair rode I, there’re armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by, no pipes did hum, no battle drum did sound its loud tattoo, but the Angelus Bell o’er the Liffey’s swell rang out in the foggy dew. Right proudly high over Dublin Town, they flung out the flag of war. ’T was 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 Britannia’s Huns, with their great big guns, sailed in through the foggy dew. Oh, the night fell black, and the rifles’ crack made perfidious Albion reel, ’midst the 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 be true, when the morning broke, still the war flag shook out its fold in the foggy dew.