The Bard of Armagh

歌詞

Oh list to the lay of a poor Irish harper And scorn not the strains of his old, withered hands But remember his fingers, they once could move sharper To raise up the memory of his dear native land At a fair or a wake, I could twist my shillelagh Or trip through a jig with my brogues bound with straw And all the pretty colleens around me assembled Loved their bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh Oh, how I long to muse on the days of my boyhood But four score and three years have flitted since then But they bring sweet reflections, as every young joy should For, the merry hearted boys makes the best of old men And when sergeant death, in his cold arms shall embrace me And lull me to sleep with sweet Erin go bragh By the side of my Kathleen, my young wife then place me Then forget Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh