. . .
As down the glen
One easter morn
To a city fair rode I
Three armed lines
Of marching men
In squadrons passed me by
No pipe did hum
No battle drum
Did sound its last tatoo
But the angelus bell
Over the Liffey swell
Rang out in the foggy dew
Right proudly high
In Dublin town
They hang out
A flag of war
It was better to die
'neath an Irish sky
Than at Suvla or Suddel bar
And from the plains
Of Royal meath
Strong men came
Hurrying through
While Britania's sons
With their longe range guns
Sailed in
Through the foggy dew
It was England bade
Our wild Geese fly
That small nations
Might be free
But their bones are laid
By Suvla's shade
On the fringe
Of the great north sea
Oh how they died
By Pearse's side
Or fought with Cathal Brugha
Their names we would keep
Where the Fenians sleep
'neath the shroud of
The foggy dew
But the bravest fell
And the requiem bell
Tolled mournfully and clear
For those who died
That Eastertide
In the springtime of the year
And the world did gaze
In deep amaze
At those gallant men but few
Who led the fight
That freedom's light
Might shine through
The foggy dew |
|
