≡ The Olde Lower Road ≡ ALMOST HOME! My feet are here on Bloor 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 Newfie hay. Had I the chance to wander back, Or own a King´s abode. I´d sooner see the crabapple tree By the Olde Lower Road. When I was young and restless My mind was ill at ease, Through dreaming of Canada, 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 kliks away From the Olde Lower Road. My father died last autumn time, When all the fields were green. The neighbours said his waking Was the finest ever seen. There were snowdrops and primroses Piled high above his bed, And the church was crowded When his funeral service was read. And here was I on Bloor A-building bricks per load. When they carried out his coffin Down the Olde Lower Road. There was a decent girl at home Who used to walk with me. Her eyes were soft and sorrowful Like moonlight o´er the sea. Her name was Clara Dwyer, But that was long ago. The ways of God are wiser Than the things that man might know. She died the day I left her, A-building bricks per load I´d best forget the days I´ve spent On the Olde Lower Road. Ah! Life´s a weary puzzle, Past finding out by man, I´ll take the day for what it´s worth And do the best I can. Since no one cares a rush for me What need is there to moan, I´ll go my way and draw my pay And smoke my pipe alone. Each human heart must bear its grief Though bitter be the `bode So God be with you, Newfoundland, And the Olde Lower Road. ~ by The Poet in Pain.
Posted on: Wed, 29 Oct 2014 13:03:21 +0000
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