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.