Old Bog Road

My feet are here on Broadway
this blesses harvest morn
But Oh the ache that's in them
for the spot where I was born
My weary hands are blistered
from work in cold and heat
and Oh to swing a scythe today
through fields of Irish wheat
Had I the chance the wander back
or own a king's abode
I'd rather see the hawthorn tree
by the Old Bog Road

My mother died last sprintime
when Ireland's fields were green
The neighbors said her waking
was the finest ever seen
There were snowdrops and primroses
piled high beside her bed
And Ferran's Church was crowded
when her funeral Mass was said
But here was I on Broadway
and bitter was my load
when they carried out her coffin
down the Old Bog Road
Och, Life's a weary puzzle
past finding out by man
I take the day for what it's worth
and do the best I can
Since no one cares a rush for me
what need a man to moan
I go my way and draw my pay
and smoke my pipe alone
Each human heart must bear it's grief
Though little be it's load
So God be with old Ireland
and the Old Bog Road
So God be with old Ireland
and the Old Bog Road