Luyện nghe bài hát Old Bog Road

The Old Bog Road: Teresa

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

When I was young and
My was ill at ease,
Through of America,
And the gold the seas.
Oh, sorrow 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
A-building per load.
A three thousand miles away
the Old Bog Road.

My died last springtime,
When Erins fields green.
The neighbours her waking
Was the finest seen.
There were snowdrops and
Piled high her bed,
And Ferns was crowded
When her Mass was read.
And was I on Broadway
A-building per load.
When carried out her coffin
the old Bog Road.

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

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