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,
And, oh, to swing a scythe today,
Through a field of Irish wheat,
Had I the chance to wander back,
Or own a king's abode,
And soon I'd see the hawthorn tree,
Down the old bog road.

When I was young and restless,
Sure, my mind was ill at ease,
From dreaming of a Americay,
And the gold beyond the sea,
Oh, sorrow take their money,
For it's hard to get the same,
Oh, and what's the world to any man,
Where no one speaks his name?
I've had my way, and here I am,
Just building bricks per load,
A long three thousand miles away,
From the old bog road.

My mother died last spring time,
When Erin's fields were green,
The neighbours said "her waking,
Was the finest ever seen!"
There were snowdrops and primroses,
Piled high upon her bed,
And Ferrans Church was crowded,
When her funeral mass was read,
Oh, but here was I on Broadway,
Just building bricks per load,
As they carried out her coffin gown,
The old bog road.

A life's a weary puzzle,
It's past finding out by man,
I'll take each day for what it's worth,
I'll do the best I can,
Since no one cares a rush for me,
Why should I make a moan?
I'll pull my way, I'll draw my pay,
And I'll smoke my pipe alone,
Each human heart must bear its grief,
Though bitter be the load,
So God, be with you Ireland,
And the old bog road.