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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Copy to Clipboard: 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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