| 'Twas down the glen one Easter morn
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| To a city fair rode I
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| When armed line of marching men
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| In squadrons passed me by
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| No pipes did hum, no battle drum
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| Did sound its loud tattoo
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| But the Angelus bell o’er the Liffey’s swell
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| Rang out in the foggy dew
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| Right proudly high over Dublin town
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| They hung out a flag of war
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| 'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky
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| Than at Suvla or Sud el Bar
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| And from the plains of Royal Meath
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| Strong men came hurrying through;
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| While Brittania’s huns with their great big guns
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| Sailed in through the foggy dew
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| 'Twas England bade our wild geese go
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| That small nations might be free
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| But their lonely graves are by Suvla’s waves
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| On the fringe of the gray North Sea
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| But had they died by Pearse’s side
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| Or fought with Cathal Brugha
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| Their names we’d keep where the Fenians sleep
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| 'Neath the shroud of the foggy dew
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| The bravest fell, and the solemn bell
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| Rang mournfully and clear
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| For those who died that Watertide
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| In the springing of the year
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| And the world did gaze with deep amaze
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| At those fearless men, but few
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| Who bore the fight that freedom’s light
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| Might shine through the foggy dew |