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 grieve 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.