Luyện nghe bài hát The Bard of Armagh

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

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

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

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