As down the glen one Easter morn
to a city fair rode I.
There Armed lines 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 the 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 long range guns
sailed in through the foggy dew.

Oh the night fell black, and the rifles' crack
made perfidious Albion reel.
In the 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.
But when morning broke, still the war flag shook
out its folds in the foggy dew.

'Twas England bade our wild geese go,
that "small nations might be free."
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 fought with Cathal Brugha.
Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep,
'neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

Oh the bravest fell, and the Requiem bell
rang mournfully and clear.
For those who died that Eastertide
in the springing of the year.
While 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.

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