My feet are here on Broadway
This blessed harvest morn
But o 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 o to swing a scythe today
Through fields of Irish wheat
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 Road.
My mother died last springtime
When Ireland's field's were green
The neighbours said her waking
Was the finest ever seen
There were snowdrops and primroses
Piled high beside her bed
And Ferns Church was crowded
When her funeral mass was said
But there was I on Broadway
Just building bricks by load
When they carried out her coffin
Down the Old Bog Road.
Ah! life's is a weary puzzle
As 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 for me to moan
I go my way and draw my pay
And smoke my pipe alone
Each human heart must know it's grief
Though bitter be its load
So God be with you Ireland
And the Old Bog Road.
So God be with you Ireland
And the Old Bog Road.