The Old Bog Road - Hank Locklin

作词：O'Farrelly/Brayton

作曲：O'Farrelly/Brayton

My feet are here on Broadway

This blessed harvest mornin'

But oh the ache that's in them

For the spot where I was born

My weary hands are blistered

Through work in cold and heat

And oh to swing a scythe day

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

Piled high beside her bed

And Ferns Church was crowded

When her funeral Mass was said

And here was I on Broadway

Just feeling bricks my load

When they carried out her coffin

Down the old Bog Road

Ah 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 I make a moan

I'll go my way and draw my pay

And smoke my pipe alone

Each very heart must have his grief

Though bitter be the load

So God be with you Ireland

And the Old Bog Road