'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 strong man came hurrying through
While britannia's huns with their long range guns sailed 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 gray north sea.
But should they died by Pearse's side or fought with Valera true,
their names we'd keep where the Fenians sleep 'neath the mounts of of the foggy dew.
The bravest fell and the solemn bell rang mournfully and clear,
For those who died that Eastertide in the springing of the year.
And the world did gaze in deep amaze all those fearless men and true,
Who bore the fight so that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew.
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