Old Bog Road - Hank Locklin

My feet are here on Broadway

This blessed harvest morn

But oh!

the ache that’s in my heart

For the spot where I was born

My weary hands are blistered

Through work in cold and heat!

And oh!

to swing a scythe once more

Through a field of Irish wheat

Had I the chance to wander back

Or own a king’s abode

I’d sooner see the hawthorn tree

By the Old Bog Road

When I was young and restless

My mind was ill at ease

Through dreaming of America

And the gold beyond the seas

Oh, sorrow rake their money

'Tis hard to find the same

And what’s the world to any man

If no one speaks his name

I’ve had my day and here I am

A-building bricks per load

A long three thousand miles away

From the Old Bog Road

My mother died last springtime

When Erin’s fields were green

The neighbours said her waking

Was the finest ever seen

There were snowdrops and primroses

Piled high above her bed

And Ferns Church was crowded

When her funeral Mass was read

And here was I on Broadway

A-building bricks per load

When they carried out her coffin

Down the old Bog Road

There was a decent girl at home

Who used to walk with me

Her eyes were soft and sorrowful

Like moonlight o’er the sea

Her name was Mary Dwyer

But that was long ago

The ways of God are wiser

Than the things that man might know

She died the day I left her

A-building bricks per load

I’d best forget the days I’ve spent

On the old Bog Road

Ah!

Life’s a weary puzzle

Past finding out by man

I’ll take the day for what it’s worth

And do the best I can

Since no one cares a rush for me

What need is there to moan

I’ll go my way and draw my pay

And smoke my pipe alone

Each human heart must bear its grief

Though bitter be the 'bode

So God be with you, Ireland

And the Old Bog Road