From Tripple Nipple Jones
As down the glen one Easter morn, to a city fair rode I
There arm-ed lines of marching men, in squadrons passed me by
No fife did hum, nor battle drum, did sound its dread tattoo,
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey swell, rang out through the foggy dew
Right proudly high over Dublin Town, they hung out the flag of war
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky, than at Sulva[^6] or Sud El Bar[^7]
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
Oh the night fell black, and the rifles' crack made perfidious Albion reel
In the leaden rain, seven tongues of flame did shine o'er the lines of steel
By each shining blade a prayer was said, that to Ireland her sons be true
But when morning broke, still the war flag shook out its folds in the foggy dew
'Twas Britannia bade our Wild Geese go, that small nations might be free
But their lonely graves are by Sulva's waves, or the shore of the Great North Sea
Oh, had they died by Pearse's side, or fought with Cathal Brugha[^8]
Their names we will keep, where the fenians sleep, 'neath the shroud of the foggy dew
But the bravest fell, and the requiem bell, rang mournfully and clear
For those who died, that Eastertide, in the springing of the year
And the world did gaze, in deep amaze, at those fearless men but few
Who bore the fight, that freedom's light, might shine through the foggy dew