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.
Here ends Twenty One Poems written by Kathar-
ine Tynan, and selected for re-printing by W. B.
Yeats. Printed upon paper made in Ireland by
Elizabeth C. Yeats, Esther Ryan and Bea-
trice Cassidy, and published by Eliza-
beth Corbet Yeats at the Dun Emer
Press, in the house of Evelyn
Gleeson at Dundrum in the
County of Dublin, Ire-
land, finished on the
twentieth day
of March
1907.
