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, no battle drum
Did sound its dread tattoo
But the Angelus' bells o'er the Liffey swell
Rang out of the foggy dew.
Right proudly high over Dublin town
They hung out a 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 Brittania's Huns with their long-range guns
Sailed out of the foggy dew.
'Twas England bade our Wild Geese go
That small nations might be free
But their lonely graves are by Sulva's waves
On the fringe of the Great North Sea
Oh, had they died by Pearse's side
Or fought with Cathal Brugha
Their names we will keep where the Fenians sleep
'neath the shroud of the foggy dew
But 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 with deep amaze
At those fearless men but few
Who bore the fight so that freedom's light
Might shine through the foggy dew.
And back through the glen I rode again
And my heart with grief was sore
For I parted then with valiant men
Whom I never will see no more
But to and fro
In my dreams I go
And I'd kneel and pray for you
For slavery fled
Oh, glorious dead
When you fell in the foggy dew
