Ireland

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 in sweet Erin go Bragh
By the side of my Kathleen, my dear bride to place me
Then forget Phelan Brady, the Bard of Armagh.