My feet are here on Broadway this blessed harvest morn
But oh the ache that's in them for the spot where I was born
My weary hands are blistered from work in cold and heat
And oh to swing a scythe today thro' fields of Irish wheat
Had I the chance to wander back or own a king's abode
'Tis soon I'd see the hawthorn tree by the Old Bog Road.

My mother died last springtime when Ireland's fields were green,
The neighbours said her waking was the finest ever seen:
The snowdrops and primroses were piled beside her bed
And Ferrans church was crowded when her funeral Mass was said
But here was I on Broadway, and bitter was my load,
When they carried out her coffin down the Old Bog Road.

When I was young and innocent my mind was ill at ease
Through dreaming of America and gold across the seas
Och, sorra take their money - 'tis hard to get the same -
And what's the world to any man when no one speaks his name?
I've had my day, and here I am and bitter is my load,
A long three thousand miles away from the Old Bog Road.

There was a decent girl at home who used to walk with me,
Her eyes were soft and sorrowful like moonbeams on the sea:
Her name was Mary Dwyer - but that was long ago -
And the ways of God are wiser than the things a man may know;
She died the year I left her, and bitter was my load,
I'd best forget the times we met on the Old Bog Road.

Och, life's a weary puzzle, past finding out by man,
I take the day for what it's worth and do the best I can.
Since no one cares a rush for me, what need to make a moan,
I go my way and draw my pay and smoke my pipe alone.
Each human heart must know its grief, though little be its load,
So God be with old Ireland and the Old Bog Road.

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