As down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I
Their Armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by
No pipes did hum no battle drum did sound it's loud tatoo
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey swell rang out through the foggy dew
Right proudly high over Dublin Town they flung out the flag of war
'Twas better to die 'neath an 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
'Twas England bade our Wild Geese go that small nations might be free
But their lonely graves are by Sulva's waves or the fringe of the Great North Sea
Oh, had they died by Pearse's side or fought with Cathal Brugha
Their names we will keep where the fenians sleep 'neath the shroud of the foggy dew
Oh the bravest fell, and the requiem bell rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Easter tide in the spring time of the year
While 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
Back through the glen I rode again and my heart with grief was sore
For I parted with those valiant men whom I never shall see more
But to and fro in my dreams I go and I'd kneel and pray for you,
For slavery fled, O glorious dead, When you fell in the foggy dew.
Автор текста, кстати, приходской священник.
Всё-таки среди католических священников число не вызывающих отвращения самое большое из всех ветвей христианства (хотя руководство там не менее реакционное, чем наши лёши и кирюши).