Luyện nghe bài hát Old Bog Road

The Old Bog Road: Brayton

My feet are on Broadway
blessed harvest morn,
But oh! the ache thats in my
For the where I was born.
My weary hands are
Through work in 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 sooner see the hawthorn
By the Old Bog Road.

When I was young and
My was ill at ease,
Through of America,
And the beyond the seas.
Oh, sorrow 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,
Erins fields were green.
The neighbours her waking
Was the ever seen.
There were and primroses
Piled above her bed,
And Ferns was crowded
When her funeral was read.
And was I on Broadway
bricks per load.
When they out her coffin
the old Bog Road.

There was a girl at home
Who to walk with me.
Her were soft and sorrowful
Like oer the sea.
Her name was Dwyer,
But was long ago.
The of God are wiser
Than the things that man know.
She the day I left her,
A-building 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 its worth
And do the I can.
no one cares 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
Though be the bode
So God be you, Ireland,
And the Old Bog Road.