As down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I,
Their armoured lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by,
No pipes did hum, nor battle drum did sound out its loud tattoo,
Ah, but the Angelus Bell o'er the Liffey's swell rang out in the foggy dew.

Right proudly and high in Dublin Town they hung out the 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 those brave men came galloping through,
While Britannia's son with their long range guns sailed in through the foggy dew.

But the bravest fell and the sullen bell rang mournfully and clear,
For those who died that Eastertide in the springtime of the year,
And the world did gaze, with deep amaze, all those fearless men, but few,
Who bore the fight that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew.

Was England who bade our wild geese go, that small nations might be free,
But their 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 Provos too,
Their names we would keep where the Fenians sleep, neath the hills of the foggy dew.

Ah, back through the glen I rode again, my heart with grief was sore,
For I parted then with valiant men of them I would see no more,
Ah, but to and fro in my dreams did go and I kneel and pray for you,
Oh, for slavery fled, oh, the rebel dead, when you fell in the foggy dew,
For slavery fled, oh, the rebel dead, when you fell in the foggy dew.