Luyện nghe bài hát The Bard of Armagh

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

At a or a wake, I could twist my shillelagh
Or trip through a jig with my brogues with straw
And all the pretty colleens around me
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 hearted boys makes the of old men

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