From Whistle-Binkie: or, the Piper of the Party, Volume 2 edited by John Donald Carrick, Alexander Rodger, David Robertson (Glasgow: David Robertson & Co., 1878), page 285:


THE BARD OF ARMAGH.
Alex. A. Ritchie
Air—" The Exile of Erin."

Oh! list to the lay of a poor Irish Harper,
Though wayward and fitful his old withered hand;
Remember his touch once was bolder and sharper,
When raising the strains of his dear native land.
Long before the shamrock, our isle's lovely emblem,
Was crush'd in its bloom 'neath the Saxon lion's paw,
I was called by the coleens around me assembling,
Their bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh!

Oh! how I love to muse on the days of my boyhood,
Tho' fourscore and three years have flitted since then!
Still it gives sweet reflection, as ev'ry first joy should,
For free-hearted boys make the best of ould men.
At the fair or the wake I could twirl my shillelah,
Or trip through the jig in my brogues bound wi' straw;
Faith, all the pretty girls in the village and the valley
Loved bould Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh!

Now tho' I have wander'd this wide world over,
Still Ireland's my home and a parent to me;
Then O! let the turf that my bosom shall cover,
Be cut from the ground that is trod by the free!
And when in his cold arms Death shall embrace me,
Och! lull me asleep wid sweet Erin go Bragh!
By the side of my Kathlin, my first love, O! place me;
She loved Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.