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Oh, down the glen I went one morn, |
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To a city there rode I. |
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There Ireland's lines of marchin' men |
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In squadrons passed me by. |
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No pipe did hum, nor no battle drum |
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Did send it straight and true. |
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Nor the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey swell |
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Rang out in 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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For 'twas better to die 'neath a Dublin sky |
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Than at Suvla or Sud-el-bar. |
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And from the plains of Royal Meath |
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Strong men came hurryin' through, |
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For Britannia's sons with their long-range guns |
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Sailed in through the foggy dew. |
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The bravest fell, and the solemn bell |
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Rang mournfully and clear |
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For those that died that Eastertide |
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In the springtime of the year. |
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The world could gaze with deep amaze |
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At those fairest men but true |
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Who bore the fight that freedom's light |
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Might shine through the foggy dew. |
