Old Bog Road

<br>The Old Bog Road: Teresa Brayton<br><br> <br><br>My feet are here on Broadway<br>This blessed harvest morn,<br>But oh! the ache thatВ’s in my heart<br>For the spot where I was born.<br>My weary hands are blistered<br>Through work in cold and heat!<br>And oh! to swing a scythe once more<br>Through a field of Irish wheat.<br>Had I the chance to wander back,<br>Or own a kingВ’s abode.<br>IВ’d sooner see the hawthorn tree<br>By the Old Bog Road. <br><br>When I was young and restless<br>My mind was ill at ease,<br>Through dreaming of America,<br>And the gold beyond the seas.<br>Oh, sorrow rake their money,<br>В‘Tis hard to find the same,<br>And whatВ’s the world to any man<br>If no one speaks his name.<br>IВ’ve had my day and here I am<br>A-building bricks per load.<br>A long three thousand miles away<br>From the Old Bog Road. <br><br>My mother died last springtime,<br>When ErinВ’s fields were green.<br>The neighbours said her waking<br>Was the finest ever seen.<br>There were snowdrops and primroses<br>Piled high above her bed,<br>And Ferns Church was crowded<br>When her funeral Mass was read.<br>And here was I on Broadway<br>A-building bricks per load.<br>When they carried out her coffin<br>Down the old Bog Road. <br><br>There was a decent girl at home<br>Who used to walk with me.<br>Her eyes were soft and sorrowful<br>Like moonlight oВ’er the sea.<br>Her name was Mary Dwyer,<br>But that was long ago.<br>The ways of God are wiser<br>Than the things that man might know.<br>She died the day I left her,<br>A-building bricks per load,<br>IВ’d best forget the days IВ’ve spent<br>On the old Bog Road. <br><br>Ah! LifeВ’s a weary puzzle,<br>Past finding out by man,<br>IВ’ll take the day for what itВ’s worth<br>And do the best I can.<br>Since no one cares a rush for me<br>What need is there to moan,<br>IВ’ll go my way and draw my pay<br>And smoke my pipe alone.<br>Each human heart must bear its grief<br>Though bitter be the В‘bode<br>So God be with you, Ireland,<br>And the Old Bog Road.