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

Right proudly high over Dublin Town they hung out a flag of war,
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 song with their long range guns sailed in from the foggy dew.

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

The bravest fell and the requiem bell rang mournfully and clear,
For those who died that Eastertide in springing of the year,
And a world did gaze in deep amaze at those fearless men and true,
Who bore the fight that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew.

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