Johnny McEvoy - The old bog road

^DMy feet are here on Broadway,this blessed harvest ^Amorn, But ^Go the ache thats i^Dn them for the ^Aplace where I was b^Dorn, My ^Dweary hands are blistered,from working cold and ^Aheath, ^GBut o to swing the s^Dcythe again,in a fi^Aeld of Irish ^Dwheat, ^GHad I the chance to wander back or own a King's ^Aabode, ^DI'd sooner see the ^Ghawthorn tree,^Aby the old bog ^Droad.

^DMy mother died last springtime,when Ireland's field's were ^Agreen, Th^Ge neighbours said her w^Daking was the f^Ainest ever s^Deen, Th^Dere were snowdrops and primroses,piled high beside he^Ar bed, An^Gd Ferns Church was c^Drouded,when the^A funeral mass was s^Daid, ^GBut here was I on Broadway,just building bricks by^A load, ^DWhen they carried ^Gout her coffin ^Adown the Old Bog ^DRoad.

^DNow life is a weary puzzle,as finding out by m^Aan, I ^Gtake the day for what i^Dt's worth,and ^Ado the best I ^Dcan, Si^Dnce no one cares a rush for me what need for me to m^Aoan, I^G go my way and d^Draw my pay and s^Amoke my pipe al^Done, ^GEach human heart must know it's grief,though bitter be the l^Aoad, ^DSo God be with ^Gyou Ireland,^Aand the Old Bog R^Doad.