The Bard of Armagh
Irish Folk Song
The Bard of Armagh Lyrics


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,
Calling 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 then,
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,
Calling 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.


[Thanks to phoclaloAlato for lyrics]

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The Bard of Armagh

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