Luyện nghe bài hát The Bard of Armagh

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

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

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

And when death, in his cold arms shall embrace me
And me to sleep with sweet Erin go bragh
By the side of my Kathleen, my young then place me
Then forget Brady, the bard of Armagh