Oh list' to the tale of a poor Irish harper

And scorn not the string of his old withered hands

But remember those fingers they once could move sharper

To raise up the strains of his dear native land



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

Was crushed in its beauty by the Saxon's lion paw

And all the pretty colleens around me would gather

Call me their bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh



How I love to muse on the days of my boyhood

Though four score and three years have fled by them

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 twist my shillelah

And trip through a dance with my brogues tied with straw

There all the pretty maidens around me would gather

Call me their bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh



In truth I have wandered this 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 doth embrace

And lull me to sleep with old Erin go bragh

By the side of my Kathleen, my dear pride, oh place me

Then forget Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh