'Twas down the glen one Easter morn|
To a city fair rode I.
When Ireland's line 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's swell
Rang out in the foggy dew.
2. Right proudly high over Dublin town
3. 'Twas England bade our wild geese go|
That small nations might be free.
Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves
On the fringe of the grey North Sea.
But had they died by Pearse's side
Or fought with Gathal Bruga,
Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep
'Neath the hills of the foggy dew.
4. The bravest fell, and the solemn bell
5. Ah, back through the glen I rode again|
And my heart with grief was sore
For I parted then with valiant men
Whom I never shall see more
But to and fro in my dreams I go
And I'd kneel and pray for you,
For slavery fled, O glorious dead,
When you fell in the foggy dew.
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