Down the glen one Easter morn, a city fair rode I,
Many armed lines of marching men in squadrons did passed me by,
But no fife did hum, nor 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 hoisted the flags of war,
For it's better to die neath an Irish sky than at Suvla or Sud-El-Bar,
High 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.

Was England bade our wild geese go, that small nations they might be free,
But their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves on the fringe of the Great North Sea,
Oh, had they died by Pearse's side or fought with the noble Cathal Brugha,
Well, their names we would keep where the Fenians sleep, neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

But the bravest they fell and the requiem bell rang mournfully loud and clear,
For those who died that Eastertide in the springtime of the year,
While the world did gaze, with deep amaze, at those fearless men, but few,
Who bore the fight so that freedom's light might shine in the foggy dew.

Back through the glen I rode again, my heart with grief was sore,
I parted with those gallant men that I never will see no more,
Ah, but to and fro in my dreams I'll go, and I'll kneel and pray for you,
For slavery fled, oh, glorious dead, when you fell in the foggy dew.