Luyện nghe bài hát The Bard of Armagh

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

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

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

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