As down the glen on an Easter morn to a city fair rode I,
Their armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by,
No pipe 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 and high over Dublin Town we hung out the flag of war,
It was better to die beneath an Irish sky than at Suvla or Sud-El-Bar,
And from the plains of Royal Meath those great men came hurrying through,
While Britannia's Huns with their long ranged guns sailed in through the foggy dew.

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

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

Back through the glen I rode again but my heart with grief was sore,
For I parted then with young gallant men whom of them I'll see no more,
Ah, but to and fro dreams I go and I kneel and pray for you,
For slavery fled, our rebels dead, when you fell in the foggy dew.