Well as down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I,
Ah, the armoured lines of marching men in squadrons they passed me by,
No pipe did hum, nor battle drum did sound its dread 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 the 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 brave men came hurrying through,
While Britannia's Huns with their long range guns sailed in through the foggy dew.

Oh, the night fell black and the riflе crack made Perfidious Albion reel,
Admist thе leaden rain, seven tongues of flame, was shining o'er the lines of steel,
By each shining blade a prayer was said, "To Ireland her sons will be true",
And when the morning broke, the war flag it shook out its fold in the foggy dew.

And it was England who bade our wild geese go, that small nations they might be free,
But their lonely graves, by Suvla's wave, the fringe of the Great North Sea,
Ah, had they died by Pearse's side or fought with the gallant Cathal Brugha,
Ah, their names we would keep where the Fenians sleep, neath the shroud in the foggy dew.

Ah, but the bravest they fell and the requiem bell rang mournfully loud and clear,
And for those who died that Eastertide in sprining of the year,
And while the world did gaze, in deep amaze, at the feraless men, but few,
Who bore the fight that freedom's light would shine in the foggy dew.

Oh, and back through the glen, I rode again, my heart with grief it was sore,
I parted again with the gallant men that I will never see see no more,
Ah, to and fro my dreams I'll go, I'll kneel and I'll pray for you,
For the slavery fled, the rebel dead, you fell in the foggy dew.
For the slavery fled, the glorious dead, you fell in the foggy dew.