'Twas down the glen one Easter mornnTo a city fair rode I.nWhen armed line of marching mennIn squadrons passed me by.nNo pipes did hum, no battle drumnDid sound its loud tattoonBut the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's swellnRang out in the foggy dew.nnRight proudly high over Dublin townnThey hung out a flag of war.n'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish skynThan at Suvla or Sud el Bar.nAnd from the plains of Royal MeathnStrong men came hurrying through;nWhile Brittania's huns with their great big gunsnSailed in through the foggy dew.nn'Twas England bade our wild geese gonThat small nations might be free.nBut their lonely graves are by Suvla's wavesnOn the fringe of the gray North Sea.nBut had they died by Pearse's sidenOr fought with Cathal Brugha,nTheir names we'd keep where the Fenians sleepn'Neath the shroud of the foggy dew.nnThe bravest fell, and the solemn bellnRang mournfully and clearnFor those who died that WatertidenIn the springing of the year.nAnd the world did gaze with deep amazenAt those fearless men, but fewnWho bore the fight that freedom's lightnMight shine through the foggy dew.n