Trad. Arr. Merry Ploughboys

As down the glen one Easter morn
To a city fair rode I.
There armed lines of marching men
In squadrons passed me by.
No pipes did hum, no battle drum
Did sound its low tattoo
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's swell
Rang out in the foggy dew.
Right proudly high over Dublin town
They flung out the flag of war.
It was 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 long-range guns
Sailed in to the foggy dew.
It was 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 grey ? North Sea.
Oh, had they died by Pearse's side
Or fought with Gathal Bruga,
Their names we would keep where the Fenians sleep
In the shroud of the foggy dew.
Oh the bravest fell, and the requiem bell
Rang mournfully loud and clear
For those who died at Eastertide
In the springtime of the year.
While the world did gaze with deep amaze
At those fearless men but few 
Who bore the fight that the freedom's light
Might shine through the foggy dew.


Back through the glen I rode again
My heart with grief was sore
For I parted with those valiant men 
who Iíll never see no more
Oh but to and fro in my dreams I go
And I kneel and pray for you
For Slavery fled Oh glorious dead
When you fell in the Foggy Dew