Shirley Grimes - The Bard Of Armagh Lyrics

Oh, list to the tale of a poor Irish harper
And scorn not the strings in his old withered hand
But remember these fingers
Could once move more sharper
To awaken the echoes of his dear native land

How I long for to muse on the days of my boyhood
Though four score and three years
Have fled by since then
Still it gives sweet reflections
As every young joy should
That merry-hearted boys make the best of old men

At wake or at fair I would twirl my shillelagh
And trip through the jigs
With my brogues bound with straw
And all the fair maidens from village and valley
Loved the bold Phelim Brady
The bard of Armagh

And although I have traveled this wide world all over
Still Erin's my home and a dwelling for me
And, oh, let the turf that my old bones shall cover
Be cut from the soil that is trod by the free

And when Sergeant Death's cold arms
Shall embrace me
Oh lull me to sleep with sweet Erin Go Bragh
By the side of my Kathleen, my own love, then place me
And forget Phelim Brady
The bard of Armagh