Song for the Month- 'The Old Bog Road'

My feet are here on Broadway
this blesses harvest morn
But Oh 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 Oh to swing a scythe today
through fields of Irish wheat
Had I the chance the 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 fields of green
The neighbours said her waking
was the finest ever seen
There were snowdrops and primroses
piled up beside her bed
And Ferran's Church was crowded
when her funeral Mass was said
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
and my mind was ill at ease
Through dreaming of America
and gold beyond the seas
Och, sorra take their money
'tis hard to get that same
And what's the world to any man
when no one speaks his name?
I've had my day and here I am
and bitter is my load
a long 3000 miles away from the  

Old Bog Road

There was a decent girl at home
who used to walk with me
Her eyes were soft and sorrowful
like moonbeams on the sea
Her name was Mary Dwyer
but that was long ago
and the ways of God are wiser than
the things a man may know
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 can
Since no one cares a rush for me
what need a man to moan
I go my way and draw my pay
and smoke my pipe alone
Each human heart must know it's grief
Though little be it's load
So God be with old Ireland
and the Old Bog Road