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Katharine Tynan - The Foggy Dew
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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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