Foggy Dew - Foggy, Foggy Dew

Foggy, Foggy Dew

The first song of this title was of English origin, called “Foggy, Foggy Dew”, and is a lamentful ballad of a young lover. It was published on a broadside around 1815, though there are very many versions: Cecil Sharp collected eight versions. Burl Ives, who popularized the song in the United States in the 1940s, claimed that a version dated to colonial America. Ives was once jailed in Mona, Utah, for singing it in public, when authorities deemed it a bawdy song. BBC Radio likewise restricted broadcast of the song to programmes covering folk tunes or the works of Benjamin Britten. The tune is a late 18th or early 19th century revision of "When I First Came To Court", licensed in 1689.

When I was a bachelor, I liv'd all alone
I worked at the weaver's trade
And the only, only thing that I ever did wrong
Was to woo a fair young maid.
I wooed her in the wintertime
And in the summer, too
And the only, only thing that I did that was wrong
Was to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.

One night she came to my bedside
When I was fast asleep.
She laid her head upon my bed
And she began to weep.
She sighed, she cried, she damn near died
She said what shall I do?
So I hauled her into bed and covered up her head
Just to keep her from the foggy foggy dew.

So, I am a bachelor, I live with my son
and we work at the weaver's trade.
And every single time that I look into his eyes
He reminds me of that fair young maid.
He reminds me of the wintertime
And of the summer, too,
And of the many, many times that I held her in my arms
Just to keep her from the foggy, foggy, dew.

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Famous quotes containing the words foggy dew, foggy and/or dew:

    When I was a bachelor, I lived by myself
    And I worked at the weaver’s trade;
    The only, only, thing that I ever did wrong
    Was to woo a fair young maid.
    I wooed her in the winter time,
    And in the summer too;
    And the only, only thing that I ever did wrong
    Was to keep her from the foggy, foggy dew.
    Unknown. The Foggy, Foggy Dew (l. 1–8)

    After sitting in my chamber many days, reading the poets, I have been out early on a foggy morning and heard the cry of an owl in a neighboring wood as from a nature behind the common, unexplored by science or by literature.
    Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862)

    A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
    Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.

    The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
    By leaving them to flourish, not for us,

    Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him,
    But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.
    Robert Frost (1874–1963)