Quoted By:
I WAS DOWN THE GLEN ONE EASTER MORN.
TO A CITY FAIR, RODE I.
THERE ARMED LINES OF MARCHING MEN,
IN SQUADRONS PASSED ME BY.
NO PIPE DID HUM, NO BATTLE DRUM DID SOUND ITS LOUD TATTOO.
BUT THE ANGELUS BELLS O'ER THE LIFFEY SWELLS, RANG OUT IN THE FOGGY DEW.
RIGHT PROUDLY HIGH IN DUBLIN TOWN,
HUNG THEY OUT A FLAG OF WAR.
'TWAS BETTER TO DIE 'NEATH THAT IRISH SKY,
THAN AT SULVA OR SUD EL BAR.
AND FROM THE PLAINS OF ROYAL MEATH,
STRONG MEN CAME HURRYING THROUGH.
WHILE BRITANNIA'S HUNS WITH THEIR LONG RANGE GUNS,
SAILED IN THROUGH THE FOGGY DEW.
THEIR BRAVEST FELL AND THE REQUIEM BELL,
RANG MOURNFULLY AND CLEAR,
FOR THOSE WHO DIED THAT EASTERTIDE IN THE
SPRINGING OF THE YEAR.
WHILE THE WORLD DID GAZE WITH DEEP AMAZE,
AT THOSE FEARLESS MEN BUT FEW,
WHO BORE THE FIGHT THAT FREEDOM'S LIGHT,
MIGHT SHINE THROUGH THE FOGGY DEW.
AND BACK THROUGH THE GLEN,
I RODE AGAIN.
AND MY HEART WITH GRIEF WAS SORE,
FOR I PARTED THEN WITH VALIANT MEN.
WHOM I NEVER SHALL SEE N'MORE,
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.
