| lyric | 1. 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, no battle drum
did sound it’s dread tattoo;
but the Angelus bell o’er the Liffey swell,
rang out trough the foggy dew.
2. It was England bade our Wild Geese: “Go,
that small nation might be free!""
But their lonely graves are by Sulva’s waves;
Or the fringe of the great North Sea.
Oh, had they died by Pearse’s side,
or fought with Cathal Brugha,
their names we’d keep where the Fenians sleep,
who fell in the foggy dew.
3. Right proudly high over Dublin town,
we flung out the flag of war.
It was better to die neath an Irish sky,
than at Sulva or Sud el Bar.
And from the plains of Royal Meath,
strong men came hurrying through,
while Brittania’s Huns and their long range guns,
poured hell through the foggy dew.
4. But the bravest fell and the requiem bell
rang mournfully and clear;
for those who died that Easter tide,
in the springtime of the year.
While the world did gaze with deep amaze,
at those fearless men but few,
aho bore the fight, that freedom’s light
might shine through the foggy dew.
5. As back to the glen I rode again
my heart with grief was sore;
for that gallant band of fighting men
l never would see more.
And to and fro in my grief | go,
I think gallant comrades of you,
for slavery fled oh glorious dead
when you fell in the foggy dew. |