As down the glen one Easter morn to the city fair rode I,
Their armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by,
No pipes did hum, no battle drum did sound its loud tattoo,
But the Angelus Bell o'er the Liffey's swell rang out in the foggy dew.

Right proudly high in Dublin Town they flung 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 strong men came hurrying through,
When Britannia's Huns with their long range guns sailed in through the foggy dew.

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

Ah, back through the glen I rode again and my heart with grief was sore,
For I parted then with the valiant men whom I never see more,
But to and fro in my dreams I go and I kneel and pray for you,
For slavery fled, oh, glorious dead, when ye fell in the foggy dew.