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, they once could sharper
To raise up the memory of his native land

At a fair or a wake, I twist my shillelagh
Or trip through a jig with my brogues with 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 three years flitted since then
But bring sweet reflections, as every young joy should
For, the merry hearted boys the best of old men

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