The Foggy Dew
A splendid place is London, with golden store, For them that have the heart and hope and youth galore; But mournful are its streets to me, I tell you true, For I’m longing sore for Ireland in the foggy dew. The sun he shines all day here, so fierce and fine, With never a wisp of mist at all to dim his shine; The sun he shines all day here from skies of blue: He hides his face in Ireland in the foggy dew. The maids go out to milking in the pastures gray, The sky is green and golden at dawn of the day; And in the deep-drenched meadows the hay lies new, And the corn is turning yellow in the foggy dew. Mavrone ! if I might feel now the dew on my face, And the wind from the mountains in that remembered place, I’d give the wealth of London, if mine it were to do, And I’d travel home to Ireland and the foggy dew.
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