The Bard of Armagh

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