Luyện nghe bài hát The Bard of Armagh

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

At a fair or a wake, I could my shillelagh
Or trip through a jig 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 of my boyhood
But four and three years have flitted since then
But bring sweet reflections, as every young joy should
For, the merry hearted boys makes the of old men

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