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 his fingers, they once could move sharper
To raise up the of his dear native land

At a fair or a wake, I twist my shillelagh
Or through a jig with my brogues bound with straw
And all the colleens around me assembled
Loved their bold Phelim Brady, the bard of

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

And when sergeant death, in his cold shall embrace me
And lull me to sleep with sweet Erin go
By the side of my Kathleen, my young then place me
Then forget Brady, the bard of Armagh