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The Bard of Armagh

Oh list' to the strains of an old Irish harper
And scorn not the strings from his old withered hands
But remember those fingers could once move more sharper
To raise up the memory of his dear native land.

It was long ere the shamrock, our dear isle's lovely emblem
Was crushed in its beauty by the Saxon's red paw
And all the pretty colleens from village and valley
Loved the 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 since then
Still it gives sweet reflection as every young boy should
For light 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 boots tied with straw
And all the pretty maidens from village and valley
Loved the bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.

In truth I have wandered this whole 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 shall embrace me
And lull me to sleep with sweet "Erin go bragh"
By the side of my Kathleen, my young wife, oh place me
Then forget Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh

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