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 nor battle drum did sound its loud tattoo. But the Angelus Bell o'er the Liffey's swell rang out through 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. '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 Easter tide in the spring time of the year. And 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.
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