As down the glen one Easter morn,
To a city fair old I,
There armoured lines of marching men,
And squadrons passed me by.
No pipes did hum our battle drum,
did sound its dread tattoo.
But the Angela's bell,
o 'er the lippy swell,
rang out in the foggy dew.
Bright proudly high over Dublin town,
they hung out the flag of war.
Twas better to die neath an irie sky
Than at Suvla or Suvla bar
And from the plains of Royal Meath
Strong men came hurrying through
Where Britannia's sons
with their long -range guns
Sailed in by the foggy dew.
But the bravest fell and the solemn bell
Rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Easter tide
In the springtime of the year.
Humble were the gays in deep amaze
At those stout -hearted men but few
Who bore the fight that
freedom's light
Might shine through the foggy dew
Twas England, that our wild geese go,
That small nations might keep free.
But their lonely graves are by soulless ways
On the fringe of the grey North Sea.
Oh, have they died by Pierce's side,
our fought with Calabroo?
Their names we would keep
where the pinyon street,
meet the shroud of the foggy dew.
Back to the glen I rode again,
my heart with grief was sore.
For I parted with those valiant men
I never would see no more.
And to one fro in my dreams I'll go,
and I'll kneel and pray for you.
For slavery fled,
O rebel dead,
When you fell in the foggy dune.