T: The Bard Of Armagh
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There are 4 recordings of this tune.
The Bard Of Armagh has been added to 5 tunebooks.
From “Flowers of Irish Melody”, Belfast 1848.
O, list to the lay of a poor Irish harper
And scorn no the strings for his old wither’d hand
Remember his fingers once could move sharper
To raise the merry strains of his dear native land.
‘Twas long before the shamrock, our green isles’ lovely emblem,
Was crush’d its beauty ‘neath the Saxon lion’s paw,
I was call’d by the coleens around me assembling,
Their bould Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh.
Ah, how I love to muse on the days of my boyhood,
Tho’ four score and three years hath 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 brogues bound with straw,
Sure all the purty maids in the village or the valley,
Lov’d bould Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh.
Now, though I have wandered this wide world over,
Yet 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 sergeant Death in his cold arms shall embrace me.
Low lull me asleep with sweet “Erin go Bragh”,
By the side of my Kathleen, my young wife, oh, place me,
Then forget Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh.
I just happened across this sung by Makem and the Clancy Brothers - a beautiful, simple and touching performance.