Wet your feet, wet your feet,
This is what he seems to say,
Calling from the dewy thicket
At the breaking of the day.

Wet your feet, wet your feet,
Silver toned he sounds the call
From his bramble in the thicket
When the dew is on the fall.

Many times in lands far distant,
In my dreams I hear him play
On his flute within the thicket,
Ere the showers have passed away.

Years have passed since last I heard him,
Since I said a sad adieu
To the early Irish morning
With the rainbow-tinted dew.

And I still can hear him calling
And the call come clear and sweet,
And I still can see the mornings
With the dew about my feet.

Wet your feet, wet your feet,
Silver toned he sounds the call
From his bramble in the thicket
When the dew is on the fall.