Clancy Brothers
The Bard of Armagh
Oh list to the lay of a poor Irish harperAnd scorn not the strains of his old, withered handsBut remember his fingers, they once could move sharperTo raise up the memory of his dear native landAt a fair or a wake, I could twist my shillelaghOr trip through a jig with my brogues bound with strawAnd all the pretty colleens around me assembledLoved their bold Phelim Brady, the bard of ArmaghOh, how I long to muse on the days of my boyhoodBut four score and three years have flitted since thenBut they bring sweet reflections, as every young joy shouldFor, the merry hearted boys makes the best of old menAnd when sergeant death, in his cold arms shall embrace meAnd lull me to sleep with sweet Erin go braghBy the side of my Kathleen, my young wife then place meThen forget Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh
From Letras Mania