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 its dread tattoo,
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey swell,
Rang out of the Foggy Dew.

Right proudly high over Dublin town
They hung out the flag of war,
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky
Than at Suvla or at 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 in through the Foggy Dew.


'Twas Eirin bade our Wild Geese go,
That small nations might be free,
But their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves
Or the fringe of the great North Sea.
Oh, had they died by Pearse's side
Or fought with Cathal Brughe,
Their names we'd keep where the Fenians sleep,
'Neath the shroud of the Foggy Dew.


But the bravest fell and the requiems bell
Rang mournfully and clear,
For those who died the Easter tide,
In the springing of the year;
While the world did gaze with deep amaze,
At those fearless men but few,
Who bore the fight, that freedom's light
Might shine through the Foggy Dew.