The Old Bog Road Lyrics

My feet are here on Broadway
This blessed harvest morn,
But oh! the ache that's in my heart
For the spot where I was born.
My weary hands are blistered
From work in cold and heat!
And oh! to swing a scythe once more
Through a field of Irish wheat.
Had I the chance to wander back,
Or own a king’s abode.
I’d sooner see the hawthorn tree
By the Old Bog Road.

My mother died last springtime,
When Erin’s fields were green.
The neighbours said her waking
Was the finest ever seen.
There were snowdrops and primroses
Piled high above her bed,
And Ferns Church was crowded
When her funeral Mass was read.
And here was I on Broadway
A-building bricks per load.
When they carried out her coffin
Down the old Bog Road.
Ah! Life’is a weary puzzle,
Past finding out by man,
I’ll take the day for what it’s worth
And do the best I can.
Since no one cares a rush for me
What need is there to moan,
I’ll go my way and draw my pay
And smoke my pipe alone.
Each weary heart must bear its grief
Though bitter be the ‘bode
So God be with Oh, Ireland,
And the Old Bog Road.