'Twas down the glen one Eastern morn to a city fair rode I, When Ireland lines of marching man in squadrons passed me by. No pipe did hun no battle drum did sound it's dread tattoo, Just the Angelus bells o'er the Liffey swells rang out in the foggy dew.
Right proudly high in Dublin Town they flung 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 stron | |