Irish Song Lyrics 
from www.traditionalmusic.co.uk 
The Old Bog Road 
My feet are here on Broadway this blessed harvest morn But oh the ache that's in me for the spot where I was born My weary hands are blistered from toil in cold and heat But oh to swing a scythe today through a field of Irish wheat If I'd the chance to wander back or own a kings abode I'd sooner see the hawthorn tree on 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 all piled beside her bed And Fern's church was crowded as her funeral mass was said But here was I on broadway building brick by load As they carried out her coffin down the old bog road 
(Break) 
Now 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 If no-one cares a rush for me what needs to make a moan I'll go my way and earn my pay and smoke my pipe alone If no-one cares a rush for me what needs to make a moan O god be with you Ireland, and the old bog road