โหลดเพลง mp3 The Old Bog Road - Hank Locklin

The Old Bog Road - Hank Locklin
My feet are here on Broadway
This blessed harvest mornin'
But oh the ache that's in them
For the spot where I was born
My weary hands are blistered

Through work in cold and heat
And oh to swing a scythe day
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 beside her bed
And Ferns Church was crowded
When her funeral Mass was said
And here was I on Broadway
Just feeling bricks my load
When they carried out her coffin
Down the old Bog Road

Ah 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
Since no one cares a rush for me
Why need I make a moan
I'll go my way and draw my pay
And smoke my pipe alone
Each very heart must have his grief
Though bitter be the load

So God be with you Ireland

And the Old Bog Road