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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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Those armored lines of marching men |
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in squadrons passed me by |
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No pipe 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 of the foggy dew |
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Right proudly high over Dublin Town |
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lay 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 out o'er the foggy dew |
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'Twas England bade our Wild Geese fly |
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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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On the fringe 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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Im sure 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 as the requiem bell |
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rang mournfully and clear |
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For those who died that Eastertide |
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in the spring time of the year |
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And 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 so that freedom's light |
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might shine through the foggy dew |
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Who bore the fight so that freedom's light |
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might shine through the foggy dew |
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might shine through the foggy dew |
