My feet are here on Broadway

This blessed harvest morn

But oh the ache thats in my heart

For the spot where I was born

My weary hands are blistered

Through work in cold and heat

And oh to swing a scythe once more

Through a field of Irish wheat

But here was I on Broadway

A-building bricks per loa

Id sooner see the hawthorn tree

By the Old Bog Road

My mother died last springtime

When Erins fields were green

The neighbours said her waking

Was the finest ever seen

There were snowdrops and primroses

Piled high above her bed

And Ferns Church was crowded

When her funeral Mass was read

But here was I on Broadway

A-building bricks per load

When they carried out her coffin

Down the old Bog Road

Ah Lifes a weary puzzle

Past finding out by man

Ill take the day for what its worth

And do the best I can

Since no one cares a rush for me

What need is there to moan

Ill go my way and draw my pay

And smoke my pipe alone

Each human heart must bear its grief

Though bitter be the bode

But God be with you Ireland

And the Old Bog Road