As down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I,
Their armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by,
No pipe did hum, no battle drum did sound its wild tattoo,
But the Angelus Bell o'er the Liffey's swell rang out in the foggy dew.

Right proudly high over Dublin Town we flung out our 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 and their great big guns sailed into the foggy dew.

It was 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 fallen by Cathal Brugha,
Their names we would keep where the Fenians sleep, neath the shade of the foggy dew.

As back through the glen I rode again, my heart with grief was sore,
For that gallant band of fighting men I never would see more,
And to and fro in my grief I go, I tthink and I pray for you,
For slavery fled, most glorious dead, when you fell in the foggy dew.