As d own the glen on e Easter morn to a cit y fa ir rode I,
There a rmed lines of marching men in squa drons pas sed me by;
No p ipe did hum, nor b attl e drum did sound it's l oud t attoo,
But the Angelus bell o'er th e Liffey's swell r ang out throug h th e Fo ggy Dew.
Right proudly high o'e r Dublin Town t hey hung ou t th e fl ag of war,
Twas better die neath a n Irish sky than at Suv la o r Su d El Bar;
And from the plains o f Ro yal Meath s trong m en came hurryi ng through,
While Brittania's Huns, with thei r long range guns, sai led in throug h th e Fo ggy Dew.
O, the night fell black, and th e rifles crack ma de "Perfi diou s Al bion" reel,
'Mid the leaden rain, seve n tongues of flame did shine o'e r th e li nes of steel;
By each shinning blade a prayer was said tha t to Irela nd her sons be true,
And when morning broke still th e war flag shook out i t's folds i n th e Fo ggy Dew.
'Twas England bade ou r Wild Geese go t hat small na tion s mi ght be free,
But their lonely graves are b y Suvla's waves or the fringe o f th e Gr eat North Sea.
Oh had they died b y Pears e's si de or had fought wi th Cat hal Brugha,
Their names we'd keep where th e Fenians sleep, 'neath the shroud o f th e Fo ggy Dew
But the bravest fell, and th e requiem bell ra ng mourn full y an d clear,
For those who died th e Eastertide in the sprin gtim e of the year.
While the world did gaze wit h de ep amaz e at those f earles s men but few,
Who bore the fight th at freedom's light m ight shine throu gh t he F oggy Dew,
Back through the glen I rode again, and my heart wit h gr ief was sore,
For I parted then wit h valient men wh o I neve r sh all see more;
But to and from in m y dream s I go, an d I'd kn eel and pray for you,
For slavery fled, O glorious dead when you fell i n th e Fo ggy Dew.
