The Bard of Armagh

Traditional
(Clancy Brothers)

    C           F        C          G7
Oh, list to the lay of a poor Irish harper
    C             G              C            G7
And scorn not the strains of his old withered hand,
      C          F             C               G
But remember his fingers, they once could move sharper
   Am           G             C    G7     C
To raise up the mem'ry 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 about me assembled
Loved their bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh.

How I long to muse on the days of my boyhood,
Though four-score and three years have flitted since then;
Yet they bring sweet reflections as every young joy should,
For the merry-hearted boys make the best of old men.

And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms shall embrace me,
Then lull me to sleep with sweet Erin go Bragh.
By the side of my Kathleen, my young wife, oh, place me;
Then forget Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh.