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 once could 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 straw
And all the colleens around me assembled
Loved their Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh

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

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