The Old Bog Road Hank Locklin

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My feet are here on Broadway
This blessed harvest morn
But oh! the ache that's 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
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

When I was young and restless
My mind was ill at ease
Through dreaming of America
And the gold beyond the seas
Oh, sorrow rake their money
'Tis hard to find the same
And what's the world to any man
If no one speaks his name
I've had my day and here I am
A-building bricks per load
A long three thousand miles away
From the Old Bog Road