Luyện nghe bài hát The Bard of Armagh

Oh list to the lay of a poor Irish
And scorn not the of his old, withered hands
But his fingers, they once could move 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 bound with
And all the pretty around me assembled
Loved their bold Phelim Brady, the bard of

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

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