The Oul Bog Road-Josef Locke & Orchestra
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TXT The Oul Bog Road-Josef Locke & Orchestra 文本歌词
The Oul Bog Road - Josef Locke & Orchestra
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.
but here was I on Broadway
A-building bricks per loa
Id sooner see the hawthorn tree
By the Old Bog Road.
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.
but here was I on Broadway
A-building bricks per load.
When they carried out her coffin
Down 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
but God be with you, Ireland,
And the Old Bog Road