My feet are here on Broadway
This blessed harvest morn,
But oh! the ache that's 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 again
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 above her bed,
And Ferns Church was crowded
When her funeral Mass was read.
And here was I on Broadway
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.
Each human heart must know it's worth, or better be the load.
May God be with you Ireland, and the old Bog Road.