The Foggy Dew
- Jerry Freeman
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- Redwolf
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Here you go. The ABC Tunefinder lists several versions. You can either download the ABC or print out a GIF or PDF of the sheet music.
<A HREF="http://trillian.mit.edu/~jc/cgi/abc/fin ... L=100">The Foggy Dew</A>
If this doesn't work for you for some reason, it's also in "Irelands 110 Best Tin Whistle Tunes."
Redwolf
<A HREF="http://trillian.mit.edu/~jc/cgi/abc/fin ... L=100">The Foggy Dew</A>
If this doesn't work for you for some reason, it's also in "Irelands 110 Best Tin Whistle Tunes."
Redwolf
- burnsbyrne
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- Isilwen
- Posts: 944
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- Location: In the Mountains to the West...
I like the song; very beautiful. I also like the way Sinead O'Connor does it on the Chieftains 40 yr celebration CD. Very unique and ear-catching.
Light spills into the hidden valley,
Illuminating the falls, paths, and
The breathtaking Elvish dwelling
Set back among great trees.
Lilting strains of Elven songs fill my heart;
I am finally home. ~Isilwen Elanessë
Illuminating the falls, paths, and
The breathtaking Elvish dwelling
Set back among great trees.
Lilting strains of Elven songs fill my heart;
I am finally home. ~Isilwen Elanessë
I had never known that this was a song about war. I did some researching and found a neat link. It has definately changed the way I now will play it, in order to bring out these emotions that I did not know were there.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/war/easter ... ng06.shtml
http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/war/easter ... ng06.shtml
Thanks. I knew it was about a battle,
but not about the Easter Uprising.
Here is the most beautiful
music of the Easter
Uprising, one of the great
poems in the English language.
Easter, 1916
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-certury houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes down the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof plashes within it;
the long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmer name upon name,
As a mother names her child
when sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, No, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse--
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
W. B. Yeats
but not about the Easter Uprising.
Here is the most beautiful
music of the Easter
Uprising, one of the great
poems in the English language.
Easter, 1916
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-certury houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes down the road,
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof plashes within it;
the long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmer name upon name,
As a mother names her child
when sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, No, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse--
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
W. B. Yeats
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