My feet are here on Broadway This blessed harvest morn, But oh! the ache thats 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 kings abode. Id 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 whats the world to any man If no one speaks his name. Ive 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 Erins 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 oer 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, Id best forget the days Ive spent On the old Bog Road. Ah! Lifes a weary puzzle, Past finding out by man, Ill take the day for what its worth And do the best I can. Since no one cares a rush for me What need is there to moan, Ill 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.