Oh! List to the strains of a poor Irish harper
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And scorn not the strings from his poor withered hand;
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Oh remember his fingers could once move more sharper
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To raise up the memory of his dear native land.
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At fair or at wake I would twist my shillelagh
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Or trip throught he jig in my brogues bound with straw;
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And all the pretty maids in the village and the valley,
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Loved their bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh
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And when Sergeant Daeth in his cold arms shall embrace me
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And lull me to sleep with sweet with sweet Erin go bragh;
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By the side of my Kathleen, my young young wife, oh then place me,
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Then forget Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh
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The Bard of Armaugh
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John McDermott |