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 dread tattoo But the Angelus bell o’er the Liffey ’s swell, rang out in 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 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”; Their lonely graves are by Suvla’s waves or the fringe of the great North Sea. Oh, had they died by Pearse’s side or fought with Cathal Brugha Their graves we’d keep where the Fenians sleep, ‘neath the shroud of the Foggy Dew. Oh the night fell black, and the rifles’ crack made perfidious Albion reel In 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 But when morning broke, still the war flag shook out its folds the foggy dew. Oh the bravest fell, and the requiem bell rang mournfully and clear For those who died that Easter tide 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 As 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 kneel and pray for you, For slavery fled, O glorious dead, when you fell in the foggy Dew
An Drúcht Geal Ceo
Unique Word Count: 177
Gabháil síos an gleann dom i measc na gcrann go dtí an chathair aoibhinn shuairc Bhí na slóite teann fána mílte lann ag teacht aníos gan ghruaim. Ní raibh crónán caoin as béalaibh píob ná drumaí ag tógáil gleo Ach an clog go glinn ag cur fáilte bhinn roimh an Aingeal sa drúcht gheal ceo. Chroch siad in airde a mbrat go hard os cionn Chaisleán Bhaile Átha Cliath. Níor ní leo bás a fháil ag Sud-El-Bar agus Éire ina ndiaidh i bpian. Is ó lár na Mí sea a ghluais an scaoth de laochra líofa beo, Agus slóite Gall ag bailiú anall a gcuid gunnaí sa drúcht gheal ceo. Ar shiúl mar chadhain, mo chreach ‘s mo lean, tá na céadta curadh cruaidh. Tá a gcnámha sínte ag Suvla an tsín, nó fá chósta na mara thuaidh. Dá bhfaigheadh siad bás sa bhaile ar lámh leis an Phiarsach atá inniu insa ghlóir, Bheadh a n-uaigh fán tsliabh i measc na bhFiann mar a dtiteann an drúcht geal ceo. ‘S iad plúr na laoch a thit faraor i mbriseadh cruaidh na Cásc’, Is d’fhág siad sinn go cráite tinn ag éagaoin fána mbás. Is bhí súile an tsaoil ag breathnú an ghnímh a rinne clanna Gael sa ghleo, Na leoin a d’éag le solas gléigeal na saoirse sa drúcht gheal ceo. Phill mé aníos fán ghleann arís is mo chroí bocht lán de bhrón, Is mé scartha choích’ le plúr na laoch nach bhfeicim arís níos mó. Is i lár na hóich’ sea bhímse ag guí le bhur gcónaí bheith sa ghlóir, Nó ruaig sibh na tráill, a fheara Fáil, nuair a thit sibh sa drúcht gheal ceo.