I think this will do it. But will someone please tell me how to get the line feeds in?
THE OLD BOG ROAD D A
My feet are here on Broadway this blessed harvest morn,
A7 A6? A D
But O, the ache that's in them for the spot where I was born.
A
My weary hands are blistered from work in cold and heat,
A7 A6? A D
And O, to swing a scythe today thro' fields of Irish wheat.
G A
Had I the chance to wander back, or own a King's abode,
D G D A D
'Tis soon I'd see the hawthorn tree by the Old Bog Road.
When I was young and restless my mind was ill at ease
Thro' dreaming of America and gold beyond the seas.
O, sorrow take their money, 'tis hard to get that same,
And what's the world to any man, where no-one speaks his name?
I've had my day, and here I am with building bricks for load,
A long three thousand miles away from the Old Bog Road.
My mother died last springtide, when Ireland's fields were green:
The neighbours said her waking was the finest ever seen.
There were snowdrops and primroses piled up beside her bed,
And Ferns Church was crowded when the funeral Mass was said,
But there was I on Broadway, with building bricks for load,
When they carried out her coffin from the Old Bog Road.
There was a decent girl at home who used to walk with me,
Her eyes were soft and sorrowful like sunbeams on the sea.
Her name was Mary Dwyer, but that was long ago,
And the ways of God are wiser than the things a man may know.
She died the year I left her, with building bricks for load -
I'd best forget the times we met on the Old Bog Road.
Ah! life's a weary puzzle past finding out by man.
I take the day for what it's worth and do the best I can.
Since no-one cares a rush for me, what needs to make a moan?
I go my way, and draw my pay, and smoke my pipe alone.
Each human heart must know its grief, though little be its load,
So God be with you, Ireland and the Old Bog Road.