The Grey Fog

There's a grey fog over Dublin of the curses, 
It blinds my eyes, mavrone; and stops my breath, 
And I travel slow that once could run the swiftest, 
And I fear ere I meet Mauryeen I'll meet Death. 

There's a grey fog over Dublin of the curses, 
And a grey fog dogs my footsteps as they go, 
And its long and sore to tread, the road to Connaught. 
Is it fault of brogues or feet I fare so slow? 

There's a grey fog over Dublin of the curses, 
But the Connaught wind will blow it from my way, 
And a Connaught girl will kiss it from my memory, 
If the Death that walks beside me will delay. 

(There's a grey fog over Dublin of the curses, 
And no wind comes to break its stillness deep: 
And a Connaughtman lies on the road to Connaught, 
And Mauryeen will not kiss him from his sleep — 
Ululu!)