My feet are here on Broadway this blessed harvest morn
But oh the ache that's in them for the spot where I was
My weary hands are blistered from work in cold and heat
And oh to swing a scythe today thro' fields of Irish
Had I the chance to wander back or own a king's abode
'Tis soon I'd see the hawthorn tree by the Old Bog
My mother died last springtime when Ireland's fields
The neighbours said her waking was the finest ever
The snowdrops and primroses were piled beside her bed
And Ferrans church was crowded when her funeral Mass
But here was I on Broadway, and bitter was my load,
When they carried out her coffin down the Old Bog Road.
When I was young and innocent my mind was ill at ease
Through dreaming of America and gold across the seas
Och, sorra take their money - 'tis hard to get the same
And what's the world to any man when no one speaks his
I've had my day, and here I am and bitter is my load,
A long three thousand miles away from the Old Bog Road.
There was a decent girl at home who used to walk with
Her eyes were soft and sorrowful like moonbeams on the
Her name was Mary Dwyer - but that was long ago -
And the ways of God are wiser than the things a man may
She died the year I left her, and bitter was my load,
I'd best forget the times we met on 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
Since no one cares a rush for me, what need to make a
I go my way and draw my pay and smoke my pipe alone.
Each human heart must know its grief, though little be
So God be with old Ireland and the Old Bog Road.
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