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The Old Bog Road
Leo McCaffrey
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๐ฌ๐ง English ยท Original
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Lyrics
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My feet are here on Broadway this blessed harvest morn
But oh, the ache that's in my heart for the sod where I was born
My weary hands are blistered from working cold and heat
And oh, to swing a scythe today through fields of Irish wheat
Had I the chance to journey back our own king's abode
I'd sooner see the hawthorn tree on the old bog road
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My mother died last springtime when Ireland's fields were green
The neighbours 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
And here was I on Broadway while building bricks per load
When they carried out her coffin down 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 or rush for me, what needs to make a moan?
I'll go my way and draw my pay and smoke my pipe alone
Each human heart must know its grief or little be its load
So, God be with you, Ireland, and the old bog road
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