THE BARD OF ARMAGH
                         (original)
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 land.
Twas long before the shamrock, our green isle's love-
ly emblem,
Was crush'd in its beauty neath the Saxon lion's
paw,
I was call'd by the *colleens, 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 em-
brace me,
Low lull me asleepwith " Erin go Bragh,"
By the side of my Kathleen, my young wife,oh place
me,
Then forget Phelim Brady


* the colleens were Scotch-Irish: Scottish settlers continued to come to Ireland to immigrate to the American colonies.