Luyện nghe bài hát Old Bog Road

The Old Bog Road: Teresa

My are here on Broadway
This harvest morn,
But oh! the ache in my heart
For the where I was born.
My weary hands are
Through in cold and heat!
And oh! to swing a scythe more
a field of Irish wheat.
Had I the chance to back,
Or own a abode.
Id sooner see the tree
By the Old Bog Road.

I was young and restless
My was ill at ease,
Through of America,
And the gold the seas.
Oh, sorrow their money,
Tis hard to the same,
And whats the to any man
If no one his name.
Ive had my day and I am
bricks per load.
A long three thousand miles
the Old Bog Road.

My died last springtime,
When Erins were green.
The said her waking
Was the ever seen.
There snowdrops and primroses
Piled above her bed,
And Church was crowded
When her funeral was read.
And was I on Broadway
A-building per load.
When they out her coffin
the old Bog Road.

There was a decent at home
Who used to with me.
Her were soft and sorrowful
moonlight oer the sea.
Her was Mary Dwyer,
But was long ago.
The ways of God are
Than the that man might know.
She died the day I her,
bricks per load,
Id best forget the Ive spent
On the old Bog Road.

Ah! a weary puzzle,
finding out by man,
Ill take the day for what its
And do the I can.
Since no one a rush for me
What need is to moan,
Ill go my way and my pay
And my pipe alone.
Each human heart must its grief
bitter be the bode
So God be you, Ireland,
And the Old Bog Road.