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
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