`Twas down the glen one Easter morn
 To a city fair rode I.
 When armed line of marching men
 In squadrons passed me by.
 No pipes did hum, no battle [bad word]  Did sound its loud tattoo
 But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's swell
 Rang out in the foggy dew.

Right proudly high over Dublin town
 They hung out a flag of war.
 'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky
 Than at Suvla or Sud el Bar.
 And from the plains of Royal Meath
 Strong men came hurrying through;
 While Brittania's huns with their great big guns
 Sailed in through the foggy dew.

O' the night fell black and the rifles' crack
 Made "Perfidious Abion" reel
 'Mid the leaden rail, seven tongues of flame 
 Did shine o'er the lines of steel.
 By each shining blade a prayer was siad
 That to Ireland her sons be [bad word] 
 And when morning broke still the war flag shook
 Out its fold in the foggy dew

'Twas England bade our wild geese go
 That small nations might be free.
 But their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves
 On the fringe of the gray North Sea.
 But had they died by Pearse's side
 Or fought with Cathal [bad word] 
 Their names we'd keep where the Fenians sleep
 'Neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

The bravest fell, and the solemn bell
 Rang mournfully and clear
 For those who died that Watertide
 In the springing of the year.
 And the world did gaze with deep amaze
 At those fearless men, but few
 Who bore the fight that freedom's light
 Might shine through the foggy dew.

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.