Luyện nghe bài hát The Bard of Armagh

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

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

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

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