Текст песни The Bard Of Armagh (John McDermott) с переводом

Oh list to the strains of a poor Irish harper

And scorn not the strings from his poor withered hand

Oh remember his fingers could once move more sharper

To raise up the memory of his dear native land

At fair or at wake I would twist my shillelagh

Or trip throughout he jig in my brogues bound with straw

And all the pretty maids in the village and the valley

Loved their bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh

And when Sergeant Daeth in his cold arms shall embrace me

And lull me to sleep with sweet with sweet Erin go bragh

By the side of my Kathleen, my young young wife, oh then place me

Then forget Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh

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