Oh, list’ to the lay of a poor Irish harper

And scorn not the strain of his poor withered hands

But remember those fingers they once could move sharper

In raising the merry strains of his dear native land.

 

It was long before the shamrock, dear isle’s lovely emblem

Was crushed in its beauty ‘neath the Saxon lion’s paw

And all the pretty colleens around me would gather

Call me their loved one, the Bard of Armagh.

 

How I love to muse on the days of my boyhood

Though four score and three years have flew by since then

It’s king’s sweet reflection that every young joy

For the merry-hearted boys make the best of old men.

 

At a fair or a wake, I would swing my shillelagh

And trip through the dance with my brogues bound with straw

And all the pretty colleens around me assembled

Loved Bold Phelan Brady, the Bard of Armagh.

 

In truth I have wandered the wide world over

Yet Ireland’s my home and a dwelling for me

And oh, let the turf that my old bones shall cover

Be cut from the land that is trod by the free.

 

And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms embraces me

And lulls me to sleep with sweet Erin go Bragh

By the side of my Kathleen, my dear bride to place me

Then forget Phelan Brady, the Bard of Armagh.