As down the glen one Easter morn to a 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 hung out a flag of war,
Twas 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 great big guns sailed in through the foggy dew.

Oh, 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, with deep amaze, at those fearless men, but few,
Who bore their fight that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew.

Twas England 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 Cathal Brugha,
Their names we would keep where the Fenians sleep, neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

Oh, the night fell black and the riflеs crack made Perfidious Albion reel,
Neath thе leaden rain, seven tongues of flame, did shine o'er the lines of steel,
By each shining blade a prayer was said, "That to Ireland her sons be true",
And when morning broke still the war flag shook out its folds in the foggy dew.

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