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Oh list to the lay of a poor Irish harper And scorn not the strains of his old withered hands But remember those fingers they once could move sharper To raise up the strains of his dear native land At a wake or a wedding I'd twist my shillelagh And trip a fine jig with me brogues bound with straw And all the pretty colleens around me assembled Love the bold Phelim Brady the Bard of Armagh And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms embrace me And lull me to sleep with old Erin Go Bragh By the side of my Kathleen, my dear pride oh place me Then forget Phelim Brady the Bard of Armagh |