As down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I,
Their armed lines of marching men in squadrons they 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 over Dublin Town they flung out a flags of war,
For it 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,
While Britannia's Huns with their long range guns sailed in through the foggy dew.

Was Britannia bade our wild geese go, small nations they 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 Cathal Brugha,
Their names we would keep where the Fenians sleep, neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

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

And back through the glen, well, I rode again, my heart with grief was sore,
For I parted then with those gallant men that I never shall see no more,
But to and fro in my dreams I'll go, well, I'll kneel and I'll pray for you,
That slavery fled, most glorious dead, when you fell in the foggy dew.