Hank Locklin - Old Bog Road lyrics

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

But 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.

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 I layed beside her bed

And Ferns Church was crowded when her funeral mass was said

But here was I on Broadway just building bricks per load

When they carried out her coffin down the old Bog Road.

Now 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 why need is there to moan

I'll go my way and draw my pay and smoke my pipe alone

Each weary heart must bear its grief though bitter be the load

So God be with ol' Ireland and the Old Bog Road...