Luyện nghe bài hát The Bard of Armagh

Oh to the lay of a poor Irish harper
And not the strains of his old, withered hands
But remember his fingers, they once could 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 Brady, the bard of Armagh

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

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