Luyện nghe bài hát Old Bog Road

The Old Bog Teresa Brayton

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

When I was and restless
My was ill at ease,
Through of America,
And the beyond the seas.
Oh, sorrow rake 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 miles away
the Old Bog Road.

My mother died springtime,
When Erins were green.
The neighbours said her
Was the finest seen.
There were snowdrops and
Piled above her bed,
And Ferns was crowded
When her Mass was read.
And here was I on
bricks per load.
When they carried out her
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,
A-building per load,
Id best the days 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 is there to moan,
Ill go my way and my pay
And smoke my alone.
Each human heart must its grief
Though bitter be the
So God be you, Ireland,
And the Old Bog Road.