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I was 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 pipe did hum, no battle drum did sound it's loud tattoo. |
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But the Angelus Bells o'er the Liffey swells rang out in the foggy dew. |
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Right proudly high in Dublin town |
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Hung they out a flag of war. |
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'Twas better to die 'neath that 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 Brittania's huns with their long range guns |
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Sailed in through the foggy dew. |
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Their bravest fell and the requiem bell |
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Rang mournfully and clear |
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For those who died that Eastertide in the |
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Springing of the year. |
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While the world did gaze with 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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And back through the glen |
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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 n'more. |
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But to and fro in my dreams I go |
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And I kneel and pray for you. |
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For slavery fled the glorious dead |
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When you fell in the foggy dew. |
