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 it's loud tattoo,
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's swell rang out through the Foggy Dew.
Right proudly high o'er Dublin Town they hung out the flag of war,
Twas better 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 long range guns, sailed in through the Foggy Dew.
O, the night fell black, and the rifles crack made "Perfidious Albion" reel,
'Mid the leaden rain, seven tongues of flame did shine o'er the lines of steel;
By each shinning blade a prayer was said that to Ireland her sons be true,
And when morning broke still the war flag shook out it's folds 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 or the fringe of the Great North Sea.
Oh had they died by Pearse's side or had fought with Cathal Brugha,
Their names we'd keep where the Fenians sleep, 'neath the shroud of the Foggy Dew
But the bravest fell, and the requiem bell rang mournfully and clear,
For those who died the Eastertide in the springtime of the year.
While 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,
Back through the glen I rode again, and my heart with grief was sore,
For I parted then with valient men who I never shall see more;
But to and from 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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