| I was down the glen one Easter morn
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| To a city fair rode I.
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| There armed lines of marching men
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| In squadrons passed me by.
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| No pipe did hum, no battle drum did sound it’s loud tattoo.
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| But the Angelus Bells o’er the Liffey swells rang out in the foggy dew.
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| Right proudly high in Dublin town
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| Hung they out a flag of war.
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| 'Twas better to die 'neath that 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 Brittania’s huns with their long range guns
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| Sailed in through the foggy dew.
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| Their bravest fell and the requiem bell
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| Rang mournfully and clear
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| For those who died that Eastertide in the
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| Springing of the year.
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| While 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 that freedom’s light
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| Might shine through the foggy dew.
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| And back through the glen
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| I rode again.
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| And my heart with grief was sore.
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| For I parted then with valiant men
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| Whom I never shall see n’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 the glorious dead
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| When you fell in the foggy dew. |