by Anonymous / Unidentified Author
In the foggy dew
Language: English
A splendid place is London, with its 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 ne'er a wisp of mist at all to dim his shine; The sun, he shines all day here from skies of blue, But 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 the dawn of 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 upon 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.
Authorship:
- by Anonymous / Unidentified Author [author's text not yet checked against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
- by Harvey Worthington Loomis (1865 - 1930), "In the foggy dew" [ sung text verified 1 time]
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website between May 1995 and September 2003.
Line count: 16
Word count: 169