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

Right proudly high over Dublin Town we hung out the flags of war,
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 o'er the foggy dew.

Was England who bade all the wild geese go, that small nations will be free,
Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves at the fringe of the Great North Sea,
Or had they died by Pearse's side or fought with the brave Cathal Brugha,
Their names we will keep where the Fenian sleeps, with the help of the foggy dew.

But now the bravest fell and the requiem bell rang mournfully and clear,
For those who died that Easter time in the springing of the year,
But now the world did gaze, in deep amaze, at those fearless men, but few,
Who would bore the fight till the freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew.

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