The Old Bog Road: Brayton
My feet are on Broadway This harvest morn, But oh! the ache thats in my For the spot I was born. My weary hands are work in cold and heat! And oh! to swing a scythe once Through a 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 and restless My was ill at ease, Through of America, And the beyond 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 away the Old Bog Road.
My died last springtime, When Erins were green. The neighbours said her Was the ever seen. were snowdrops and primroses Piled high her bed, And Church was crowded When her Mass was read. And here was I on bricks per load. When carried out her coffin the old Bog Road.
There was a decent girl at Who used to walk me. Her eyes were soft and moonlight oer the sea. Her was Mary Dwyer, But that was ago. The of God are wiser the things that man might know. She died the day I her, A-building per load, Id best forget the days Ive On the old Bog Road.
Ah! Lifes a puzzle, finding out by man, Ill take the day for what its And do the I can. no one cares a rush for me What is there to moan, Ill go my way and my pay And my pipe alone. Each heart must bear its grief Though bitter be the So God be you, Ireland, And the Old Bog Road.