Old Bog Road

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

Through 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.

When I was young and restless

My mind was ill at ease,

Through dreaming of America,

And the gold beyond the seas.

Oh, sorrow rake their money,

‘Tis hard to find the same,

And what’s the world to any man

If no one speaks his name.

I’ve had my day and here I am

A-building bricks per load.

A long three thousand miles away

From 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.

There was a decent girl at home

Who used to walk with me.

Her eyes were soft and sorrowful

Like moonlight o’er the sea.

Her name was Mary Dwyer,

But that was long ago.

The ways of God are wiser

Than the things that man might know.

She died the day I left her,

A-building bricks per load,

I’d best forget the days I’ve spent

On the old Bog Road.

Ah! Life’s 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 human heart must bear its grief

Though bitter be the ‘bode

So God be with you, Ireland,

And the Old Bog Road.