Luyện nghe bài hát The Bard of Armagh

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

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

Oh, how I long to muse on the days of my
But four score and three years have flitted then
But they bring sweet reflections, as young joy should
For, the merry hearted boys makes the 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 wife then place me
Then forget Brady, the bard of Armagh