| lyric | 1. Oh, list to the lay of a poor Irish harper,
and scorn not the strains of his withend old harid,
remember hin fingers, they once could move sharp er,
To raise up the mem’ry of his dear native land.
2. When I was a young lad King Jamie did flourish
And I followed the wars in my brogues bound with straw.
And all the fair colleens from Wexford to Durrish
Called me bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.
3. How I love for to muse on the days of my boyhood
Tho’ four score and three years have flitted since then,
Still it gives sweet reflections as every young joy should,
For light-hearted boys to make the best of old men.
4. At pattern of fair Icould twist my shillelagh
Or trip through the jig with my bro gues bound with straw,
Whilst all the pretty maidens around me assembled
Loving bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.
5. Although I have travelled this wide world over,
Yet Erin’s a home and a parent to me;
Then, oh, let the ground that my old bones shall cover
Be cut from the soil that is trod by the free.
6. And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms shall embrace me,
Oh, lull me to sleep with ‘Erin go Bragh’,
By the side of my Kathleen, my young wife, oh, place me,
Then forget Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh. |