Текст: Young Dubliners, the. The Foggy Dew.

Twas down the glen one Easter morn
to a city fair rode I
Those armored lines of marching men
in squadrons passed me by
No fife did hum no battle drum
did sound it's dread tattoo
But the Angelus bells o'er the Liffey swell
rang out o'er 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 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 out o'er through the foggy dew

'Twas England bade our Wild Geese fly
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

But the bravest fell, as the requiem bell
rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Eastertide
in the spring time of the year
And the world did gaze, with deep amaze,
at those fearless men, but few
Who bore the fight so that freedom's light
might shine through the foggy dew