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.