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Oh, list to the tale of a poor Irish harper And scorn not the strings in his old withered hand But remember these fingers could once move more sharper To waken the echoes of his dear native land How I long for to muse on the days of my boyhood Though four score and three years have fled by since then Still it gives sweet reflections, as every young joy should That merry-hearted boys make the best of old men At wake or at fair I would twirl my shillelagh And trip through the jigs with my brogues bound with straw And all the pretty maidens from the village, the valley Loved the bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh And when sergeant Death's cold arms shall embrace me Oh lull me to sleep with sweet Erin Go Bragh By the side of my Kathleen, my own love, then place me And forget Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh From Letras Mania