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Oh list' to the tale of a poor Irish
harper
And scorn not the string of his old withered hands
But
remember those fingers they once could move sharper
To raise up
the strains of his dear native land.
It was long before the shamrock, dear isle's lovely
emblem
Was crushed in its beauty by the Saxon's lion paw
And
all the pretty colleens around me would gather
Call me their bold
Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.
How I love to muse on the days of my
boyhood
Though four score and three years have fled by
them
It's king's sweet reflection that every young joy
For the
merry-hearted boys make the best of old men.
At a fair or a wake I would twist my
shillelah
And trip through a dance with my brogues tied with
straw
There all the pretty maidens around me would gather
Call
me their bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.
In truth I have wandered this wide world over
Yet
Ireland's my home and a dwelling for me
And, oh, let the turf
that my old bones shall cover
Be cut from the land that is trod
by the free.
And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms doth
embrace
And lull me to sleep with old Erin go bragh
By the
side of my Kathleen, my dear pride, oh place me
Then forget
Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.
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The Bard of
Armagh
