Right proudly high over Dublin town

 they hung out the flag of war,

’Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky

 than at Suvla or Sudelbar

and from the plains of royal Meath,

 strong men came hurrying through,

 while Brittania's sons with their great guns,

 sailed in by the foggy dew.

The night fell black, but the rifles crack,

 made perfidious albion reel,

Amid leaden rain, seven tongues of flame,

 did burn o'er the lines of steel,

by each shining blade a prayer was said,

 that to Ireland, her sons might be true,

and when morning broke still the war flag shook,

 its folds in the foggy dew.

But the bravest fell and the sullen bell,

 rang mournfully and clear,

For those who died that Easter tide,

 In the springing of the year,

and the world did gaze with deep amaze,

 on those fearless men but few,

 who bore the fight that freedom's light,

 Might shine through the foggy dew.

’Twas England bade our wide geese go,

that small nations might he free,

but their lonely graves are by Suvlas waves,

 and the fringe of the grey North Sea,

Oh had they died, by Pearse's side,

 or fought with de Valera too,

their place we'd keep, where the fenians sleep,

 ’neath the hills of the foggy dew.

Back to the glen I rode again

 and my heart with grief was sore,

for I parted then with valiant men,

 I never would see more,

but to and fro, in my dreams I go,

 and I kneel and pray for you,

 for slavery fled, oh rebel dead,

 when you fell in the foggy dew.