As down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I,
Her armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by,
No pipes 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 in Dublin Town they hung out a flag of war,
It was 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 great big guns sailed in through the foggy dew.

Oh, the night fell black and the riflеs crack made Perfidious Albion reel,
Mid thе leaden rain, seven tongues of flame, did shine o'er the lines of steel,
And by each shining blade a prayer was said, "That to Ireland her sons might be true",
And when morning broke still the war flag shook its folds in the foggy dew.

Twas England bade our wild geese go, that small nations might be free,
But 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 names we would 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 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 that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew.

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