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, hands
But remember his fingers, they once could move
To raise up the memory of his dear land

At a fair or a wake, I could twist my
Or trip through a jig with my brogues bound straw
And all the pretty around me assembled
Loved their Phelim 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 boys makes the best of old men

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