O list to the lay of a poor Irish harper, And scorn not the strings for his old wither'd hand; Remember his fingers once could move sharper, To raise the merry strains of his dear native land. 'Twas long before the shamrock, our green isle's lovely emblem, Was crush'd in its beauty 'neath the Saxon lion's paw, I was call'd by the coleens, around me assembling, Their Bould Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh!
Ah, 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 every young joy should, For the merry-hearted boys make the best of old men. At the fair or the wake I could twirl my shillelah, Or trip through the jig in my brogs bound with straw; Sure all the purty maids in the village or the valley Lov'd Bould Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.
Now tho' I've wandered this wide world over, It's Ireland is my home and a parent to me; Then, O! let the turf that my old bones shall cover Be cut from the ground that is trod by the free. And when serjeant Death in his cold arms shall embrace me, Low lull me asleep with "Erin go Bragh," By the side of my Kathleen, my young wife, oh place me, Then forget Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.