| As down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I
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| There Armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by
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| No pipe did hum no battle drum did sound its loud tattoo
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| But the Angelus Bell o'er the Liffey's swell rang out in the foggy dew
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| Right proudly high over Dublin Town they hung out the flag of war
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| 'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky than at Suvla or Sud-El-Bar
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| And from the plains of Royal Meath strong men came hurrying through
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| While Britannia's Huns, with their long range guns sailed in through the foggy dew
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| 'Twas England bade our wild geese go, that small nations might be free
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| Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves or the fringe of the great North Sea
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| Oh, had they died by Pearse's side or fought with Cathal Brugha
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| Their names we'd keep where the Fenians sleep, 'neath the shroud of the foggy dew
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| Oh the bravest fell, and the Requiem bell rang mournfully and clear
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| For those who died that Eastertide in the spring time of the year
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| While the world did gaze, in deep amaze, at those fearless men, but few
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| Who bore the fight that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew
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| Back through the glen I rode again, my heart with grief was sore
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| For I parted with those valiant men that I'll never see more
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| But to and fro in my dreams I go and I kneel and pray for you
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| For slavery fled, O glorious dead, when you fell in the foggy dew |