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 pipes did hum, nor battle drum did sound its fair 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,
But twas 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 long range guns sailed in through the foggy dew.

Was England bade her wild geese go, that small nations might be free,
For her 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 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 Eastertime in the springtime of the year,
While the world did gaze, in deep amaze, at those fearless men, but few,
Who bore the fight that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew.

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