Oh, listen 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 waken the echoes of his dear native land.
2. How I long for to muse on the days of my boyhood
3. At wake or at fair I would twirl my shillelagh|
And trip through the jigs with my brogues bound with straw
And all the pretty maidens from the village, the valley
Loved the bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh.
4. And when sergeant Death's cold arms shall embrace me
| Song Index | Home Page |