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As down the glen one Easter morn |
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To a city fair rode I |
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There Armed lines of marching men |
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In squadrons passed me by |
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No fife did hum nor battle drum |
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Did sound it's dread tattoo |
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But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey swell |
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Rang out through the foggy dew |
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Right proudly high over Dublin Town |
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They hung out the flag of war |
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'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky |
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Than at Sulva or Sud El Bar |
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And from the plains of Royal Meath |
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Strong men came hurrying through |
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While Britannia's Huns, with their long range guns |
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Sailed in through the foggy dew |
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'Twas Britannia bade our Wild Geese go |
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That small nations might be free |
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But their lonely graves are by Sulva's waves |
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Or the shore of the Great North Sea |
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Oh, had they died by Pearse's side |
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Or fought with Cathal Brugha |
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Their names we will keep where the fenians sleep |
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'Neath the shroud of the foggy dew |
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But the bravest fell, and the requiem bell |
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Rang mournfully and clear |
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For those who died that Easter tide |
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In the springing of the year |
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And the world did gaze, in deep amaze |
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At those fearless men, but few |
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Who bore the fight that freedom's light |
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Might shine through the foggy dew |
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Oh, back through the glen I rode again |
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And my heart with grief was sore |
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For I parted then with valiant men |
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Whom I never shall see more |
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But to and fro in my dreams I go |
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And I'd kneel and pray for you |
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For slavery fled, O glorious dead |
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When you fell in the foggy dew |