ҐTwas down the glen one Easter morn
To a city fair rode I.
When Irelandґs 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 oґer the Liffeyґs swell
Rang out in the foggy dew.
Right proudly high over Dublin town
They hung out a flag of war.
ҐTwas better to die ґneath an Irish sky
Than at Suvla or Sud el Bar.
And from the plains of Royal Meath
Strong men came hurrying through;
While Brittaniaґs sons with their long-range guns
Sailed in from the foggy dew.
ҐTwas England bade our wild geese go
That small nations might be free.
Their lonely graves are by Suvlaґs waves