My feet are here on BroadwayThis blessed harvest morn,But oh! the ache that’s in my heartFor the spot where I was born.My weary hands are blisteredThrough work in cold and heat!And oh! to swing a scythe once moreThrough a field of Irish wheat.Had I the chance to wander back,Or own a king’s abode.I’d sooner see … More The Ghosts of The Old Bog Road