Oh, as down the glen on an Easter morn to a city fair rode I,
Well, their armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by,
Ah, no pipes did hum, no 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.

Oh, right proudly and high over Dublin Town we hung out our flag of war,
It was better to die neath an Irish sky than Suvla or Sud-El-Bar,
Oh, and from the plains of Royal Meath brave men came galloping through,
While Britannian sons with their long range guns sailed in through the foggy dew.

Well, the night fell black and the riflе crack made Perfidious Albion reel,
Oh, neath thе lead and rain, seven tongues of flame, did shine o'er our ring of steel,
By each shining blade a prayer was said, "To Ireland her son would be true",
And when morning broke still the war flag shook out its folds in the foggy dew.

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

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But the bravest fell and the requiem bell rang mournfully loud and clear,
For those who died by that Eastertide in the springing of the year,
But 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.

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