My feet are here on Broadway this blessed harvest morn
But oh 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 once more 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 I layed beside her bed
And Ferns Church was crowded when her funeral mass was said
But here was I on Broadway just building bricks per load
When they carried out her coffin down the old Bog Road.

Now 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 is there to moan
I'll go my way and draw my pay and smoke my pipe alone
Each weary heart must bear its grief though bitter be the load
So God be with ol' Ireland and the Old Bog Road...