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Old Bog Road - The Shannon Singers
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
Through work in cold and heat
And oh to swing a scythe
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
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
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
So God be with you Ireland
And the old bog road
