Текст песни The Bard of Armagh - Tommy Makem , The Clancy Brothers
Oh
list
to
the
lay
of
a
poor
Irish
harper
And
scorn
not
the
strains
of
his
old,
withered
hands
But
remember
his
fingers,
they
once
could
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
around
me
assembled
Loved
their
bold
Phelim
Brady,
the
bard
of
Armagh
Oh,
how
I
long
to
muse
on
the
days
of
my
boyhood
But
four
score
and
three
years
have
flitted
since
then
But
they
bring
sweet
reflections,
as
every
young
joy
should
For,
the
merry
hearted
boys
makes
the
best
of
old
men
And
when
sergeant
death,
in
his
cold
arms
shall
embrace
me
And
lull
me
to
sleep
with
sweet
Erin
go
bragh
By
the
side
of
my
Kathleen,
my
young
wife
then
place
me
Then
forget
Phelim
Brady,
the
bard
of
Armagh
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