Twas down the glen one Easter morn

To a city fair rode I.

When Ireland´s line of marching men

In squadrons passed me by.

No pipe did hum, no battle drum

Did sound its dread tattoo

But the Angelus bell o´er the Liffey´s swell

Rang out in the foggy dew.



Right proudly high over 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 Brittania´s sons with their long-range guns

Sailed in from the foggy dew.



´Twas England bade our wild geese go

That small nations might be free.

Their lonely graves are by Suvla´s waves

On the fringe of the grey North Sea.

But had they died by Pearse´s side

Or fought with Gathal Bruga,

Their graves we´d keep where the Fenians sleep

´Neath the hills of the foggy dew.



The bravest fell, and the solemn bell

Rang mournfully and clear

For those who died that Eastertide

In the springing of the year.

And the world did gaze in deep amaze

At those fearless men and true

Who bore the fight that freedom´s light

Might shine through the foggy dew