Luyện nghe bài hát Old Bog Road

The Old Bog Road: Teresa

My feet are here on
blessed harvest morn,
But oh! the thats in my heart
For the where I was born.
My hands are blistered
work in cold and heat!
And oh! to a scythe once more
a field of Irish wheat.
Had I the chance to back,
Or own a abode.
Id see the hawthorn tree
By the Old Bog Road.

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

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

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

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