twas better to die 'neath an irish sky

Like any good Irish lass, I have been known to have a Guinness (or five), and hop on small stages at places like Nanny O’Briens to sing along to joyful ballads about famine, theft, and well, . . . drinking five or more Guinnesses. Like any good Irish lass, I have read the poetry of my ancestors who mastered a language that was forced upon them. I have a stomach made for bland starches, and the skin for staying inside. I will probably have bagpipes at my wedding, exclusively for the purpose of making people with red faces and white hair weep. My DNA-given skill of implementing the silent treatment is both a blessing and a curse. Sure, I look good in green, and I find miniature, magical men with beards to be cute. But for me, being Irish has really always been about something more.

At an early age, my parents taught me that with being Irish comes the responsibility of living a life that honors the story of my ancestors. They taught me that what is most exciting and obligatory about my being Irish is my blood-given right to stand in solidarity with those who have been killed and oppressed by systematic political and military powers. My parents taught me, at a very young age, that being Irish was about the Foggy Dew. St. Patrick's Day is a good reminder for me, about what it means to be Irish.

“The Foggy Dew,” An old Irish Ballad about the Easter uprising of 1916:

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's 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 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 in 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

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.