Luyện nghe bài hát Old Bog Road

The Old Bog Teresa Brayton

My are here on Broadway
This harvest morn,
But oh! the ache thats in my
For the where I was born.
My weary hands are
Through in cold and heat!
And oh! to swing a scythe once
a field of Irish wheat.
Had I the to wander back,
Or own a abode.
Id sooner see the hawthorn
By the Old Bog Road.

When I was and restless
My was ill at ease,
Through of America,
And the beyond the seas.
Oh, rake their money,
Tis hard to the same,
And whats the to any man
If no one his name.
Ive had my day and I am
bricks per load.
A three thousand miles away
the Old Bog Road.

My mother last springtime,
When fields were green.
The said her waking
Was the finest seen.
There were snowdrops and
Piled above her bed,
And Ferns Church was
When her funeral was read.
And here was I on
A-building per load.
When they carried out her
the old Bog Road.

There was a girl at home
Who to walk with me.
Her eyes were and sorrowful
moonlight oer the sea.
Her was Mary Dwyer,
But was long ago.
The of God are wiser
Than the things that man know.
She died the day I her,
A-building per load,
Id forget the days Ive spent
On the old Bog Road.

Ah! a weary puzzle,
Past out by man,
Ill the day for what its worth
And do the I can.
Since no one cares a for me
What is there to moan,
Ill go my way and my pay
And my pipe alone.
Each heart must bear its grief
Though be the bode
So God be you, Ireland,
And the Old Bog Road.