文本歌词

The Bard Of Armagh - John McCormack (麦考梅克)
Oh list to the lay of a poor Irish harper
And scorn not the strains of
His old withered hand
But remember his fingers
They could once 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 in
The village or the valley
Loved their bold Phelim Brady
The bard of Armagh
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 so place me
And forget Phelim Brady
The bard of Armagh