It was 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 fife did hum and no battle drum did sound its dread tattoo,
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's swell rang out in the foggy dew.

It was England bade our Wild Geese go that small nations might be free.
Their lonely graves are by Subla's wave, or 'neath the hills of the grey North Sea.
But had they died by Pearse's side or fought with Valer true,
Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep, in the hills of the foggy dew.

The bravest fell and the solemn bell rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Eastertide, in the springing of the year.
But the world did gaze in deep amaze at those fearless men and true,
Who bore the fight that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew.

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