Luyện nghe bài hát The Bard of Armagh

Oh list to the lay of a poor Irish
And not the strains of his old, withered hands
But remember his fingers, they could move sharper
To up the memory of his dear native land

At a fair or a wake, I could my shillelagh
Or trip through a jig with my brogues bound with
And all the pretty colleens around me
Loved bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh

Oh, how I long to muse on the of my boyhood
But four score and three years have flitted since
But they bring sweet reflections, as every young joy
For, the merry hearted boys the best of old men

And when sergeant death, in his cold shall embrace me
And lull me to sleep with Erin go bragh
By the side of my Kathleen, my young wife place me
Then forget Phelim Brady, the of Armagh