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    'Twas down the glen one Easter morn
    To a city fair rode I.
    When armed line 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 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 huns with their great big guns
    Sailed in through the foggy dew.

    O' the night fell black and the rifles' crack
    Made "Perfidious Abion" reel
    'Mid the leaden rail, seven tongues of flame
    Did shine o'er the lines of steel.
    By each shining blade a prayer was siad
    That to Ireland her sons be true,
    And when morning broke still the war flag shook
    Out its fold in 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 gray North Sea.
    But had they died by Pearse's side
    Or fought with Cathal Brugha,
    Their names we'd keep where the Fenians sleep
    'Neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

    The bravest fell, and the solemn bell
    Rang mournfully and clear
    For those who died that Watertide
    In the springing of the year.
    And the world did gaze with deep amaze
    At those fearless men, but few
    Who bore the fight that freedom's light
    Might shine through the foggy dew.

    Ah, 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'd kneel and pray for you,
    For slavery fled, O glorious dead, when
    you fell in the foggy dew.

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