Bard Of Armagh, The
Traditional
Oh, list to the lay of a poor Irish harper 
And scorn not the strains of his old withered hand 
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 in the village or the valley 
Loved their bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh 

Oh, how I long to muse on the days of my boyhood 
Though four-score and three years have flitted since then 
But it bring sweet reflections as every young joy should 
For the merry-hearted boys make the best of old men 

And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms shall embrace me 
Then lull me to sleep with sweet Erin go Bragh 
By the side of my Kathleen, my young wife, then place me 
And forget Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh