My[D] feet are here on Broadway,this blessed harvest[A] morn,
But[G] o the ache thats[D] in them for the[A] place where I wa[D] born,
My[D] weary hands are blistered,from working cold and[A] heath,
But[G] o to swing the[D] scythe again,in a[A] field of Irish[D] wheat,
Had[G] I the chance to wander back or own a King's[A] abode,
I'd[D] sooner see the[G] hawthorn tree,by the[A] old bog[D] road.
My mother died last springtime,when Ireland's field's were gree,
The neighbours said her waking was the finest ever seen,
There were snowdrops and primroses,piled high beside her bed,
And Ferns Church was crouded,when the funeral mass was said,
But here was I on Broadway,just building bricks by load,
When they carried out her coffin down the Old Bog Road.
Now life is a weary puzzle,as finding out by man,
I take the day for what it's worth,and do the best I can,
Since no one cares a rush for me what need for me to moan,
I go my way and draw my pay and smoke my pipe alone,
Each human heart must know it's grief,though bitter be the load,
So God be with you Ireland,and the3 Old Bog Road.