|Twas down the glen one Easter
To a city fair rode I.
When Ireland's line of marching men
In squadrons passed me by.
No pipe did hum, no battle drum
Did sound its dread tattoo
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's swell
Rang out in the foggy dew.
Right proudly high over Dublin town
Oh, the night fell black and the rifles crack
|'Twas England bade our Wild
That small nations might be free
But their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves
or the fringe of the grey North Sea
Oh had they died by Pearse's side,
or had fought with Cathal Brugha
Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep,
'neath the shroud of the Foggy Dew.
But the bravest fell, and the requiem bell
Ah, back through the glen I rode again,
British troops shelling the Dublin Post Office, 1916
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