The Old Bog Road Finbar Furey

The Old Bog Road Finbar Furey
Old Bog Road
Author: Teresa Brayton (1868-1943)
My feet are here on Broadway,
this blessed harvest morn.
And all 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 again
in fields of Irish wheat!
Had I the chance to wander back
or own a king's abode,
'tis soon I'd see the hawthorn tree
by the Old Bog Road.
My mother died last springtime
when Ireland's fields were green.
The neighbours said her waking
was the finest ever seen.
There were snowdrops and primroses
piled up beside her bed.
And Ferran's Church was crowded
when her funeral Mass was said.
But here was I on Broadway
and bitter was my load,
when they carried out her coffin
down the Old Bog Road.
When I was young and restless
my mind was ill at ease.
Through dreaming of America
and its gold beyond the seas.
Oh sorrow take their money,
'tis hard to get the same.
And what's this world to any man,
when no one speaks his name?
I've had my day and here I am
building bricks by load.
A long 3000 miles away
from the Old Bog Road.
There was a decent girl at home
who used to walk with me.
Her eyes were soft and sorrowful
like moonbeams on the sea.
Her name was Mary Dwyer
but that was long ago
and the ways of God are wiser than
the things a man may know.
She died the year I left her
and bitter was my load.
I'd best forget the times we met
on the Old Bog Road.
Sure, this life's a weary puzzle,
past finding out by man.
I'll live this life for what it's worth
and do the best I can.
Since no one cares a rush for me,
I need not weep no more.
I go my way and draw my pay
and smoke my pipe alone.
Each human heart must know its grief,
though little be its load.
So God be with you, Ireland
and the Old Bog Road.
So God be with you, Ireland
and the Old Bog Road.