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'Twas down the glen one Easter morn |
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To a city fair rode I. |
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When Ireland's line of marching men |
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In squadrons passed me by. |
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No pipe did hum, no battle drum |
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Did sound its dread tattoo |
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But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's 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 a flag of war. |
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'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky |
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Than at Suvla or Sudal Bar. |
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And from the plains of Royalmeath |
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Strong men came hurrying through; |
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While Brittania's sons with their long-range guns |
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Sailed in from the foggy dew. |
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And 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 kneel and pray for you |
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For slavery fled, oh glorious dead |
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When you fell in the foggy dew. |
