Old Bog Road Lyrics - Hank Locklin

The Old Bog Road: Teresa Brayton 

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. 

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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. 

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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.