Oh list to the lay of a poor irish harper
and scorn not the strains of his old, withered hands
but remember his fingers, they once could move sharper
to raise up the memory of his dear native land
At a fair or a wake, i could twist my shillelagh
or trip through a jig with my brogues bound with straw
and all the pretty colleens around me assembled
loved their bold phelim brady, the bard of armagh
Oh, how i long to muse on the days of my boyhood
but four score and three years have flitted since then
but they bring sweet reflections, as every young joy should
for, the merry hearted boys makes the best of old men
And when sergeant death, in his cold arms shall embrace me
and lull me to sleep with sweet erin go bragh
by the side of my kathleen, my young wife then place me
then forget phelim brady, the bard of armagh
Tommy Makem - The Bard Of Armagh Lyrics
Tommy Makem - The Bard Of Armagh Lyrics
We currently do not have these lyrics.
If you would like to submit them, please use the form below.
We currently do not have these lyrics.
If you would like to submit them, please use the form below.
Oh list to the lay of a poor irish harper
and scorn not the strains of his old, withered hands
but remember his fingers, they once could move sharper
to raise up the memory of his dear native land
At a fair or a wake, i could twist my shillelagh
or trip through a jig with my brogues bound with straw
and all the pretty colleens around me assembled
loved their bold phelim brady, the bard of armagh
Oh, how i long to muse on the days of my boyhood
but four score and three years have flitted since then
but they bring sweet reflections, as every young joy should
for, the merry hearted boys makes the best of old men
And when sergeant death, in his cold arms shall embrace me
and lull me to sleep with sweet erin go bragh
by the side of my kathleen, my young wife then place me
then forget phelim brady, the bard of armagh
and scorn not the strains of his old, withered hands
but remember his fingers, they once could move sharper
to raise up the memory of his dear native land
At a fair or a wake, i could twist my shillelagh
or trip through a jig with my brogues bound with straw
and all the pretty colleens around me assembled
loved their bold phelim brady, the bard of armagh
Oh, how i long to muse on the days of my boyhood
but four score and three years have flitted since then
but they bring sweet reflections, as every young joy should
for, the merry hearted boys makes the best of old men
And when sergeant death, in his cold arms shall embrace me
and lull me to sleep with sweet erin go bragh
by the side of my kathleen, my young wife then place me
then forget phelim brady, the bard of armagh
Writer: J BAIRD, PD TRADITIONAL
Copyright: Lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.
Copyright: Lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.