THE BARD OF ARMAGH

O list to the lay of a poor Irish harper

And scorn not the strains of his near withered hand

But remember his fingers could once toil more sharper

To raise up the memories of his dear native land.

At the fair or the wake I could twist my shillelagh

Or trip through a jig in my brogues bound with straw

And all the pretty fair maids from village and valley

Loved their bold Phelim Brady the Bard of Armagh.

It was long before the shamrock our dear native emblem

Was crushed in its beauty by the Saxon’s lions paw

And all the pretty colleens around me assembled

Loved their bold Phelim Brady the Bard of Armagh.

O how I long to muse on the days of my boyhood

Though four score and two years have flitted since then

But it brings sweet reflections as every young joy should

For the merry hearted boys make 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 Brath

By the side of my Kathleen, my young wife then place me

And forget Phelim Brady The Bard of Armagh.