Broadcast 3rd January 2021 The Old Bog Road Author: Teresa Brayton (1868-1943) My feet are here on Broadway this blesses 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 fields of Irish wheat Had I the chance the wander back or own a king's abode 'tis soon I'd see the hawthorn tree by the Old Bog Road My mother died last springtime when Ireland's fields of green The neighbours said her waking was the finest ever seen There were snowdrops and primroses piled up beside her bed And Fern's Church was crowded when her funeral Mass was said But here was I on Broadway and bitter was my load when they carried out her coffin down the Old Bog Road When I was young and innocent and my mind was ill at ease Through dreaming of America and gold beyond the seas Och, sorra take their money 'tis hard to get that same And what's the world to any man when no one speaks his name? I've had my day and here I am and bitter is my load a long 3000 miles away from the Old Bog Road There was a decent girl at home who used to walk with me Her eyes were soft and sorrowful like moonbeams on the sea Her name was Mary Dwyer but that was long ago and the ways of God are wiser than the things a man may know She died the year I left her and bitter was my load I'd best forget the times we met on the Old Bog Road Och, Life's a weary puzzle past 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 a man to moan I go my way and draw my pay and smoke my pipe alone Each human heart must know it's grief Though little be it's load So God be with old Ireland and the Old Bog Road ... https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=122m9e_yMD8