Northwind - Bard Of Armagh | Текст песни

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• Northwind
• Bard Of Armagh

Oh list' to the strings of a poor Irish harper
And scorn not the strings from his poor withered hands
And remember his fingers, could once move so sharply
And raise up the memory of his dear native land

At fair or at awake I could twist my shillelagh,
And dance through the geeks with my brogues bound with straw;
And all the pretty colleens in village and valley
Loved the bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh

And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms embrace me,
To lull me to sleep with sweet 'Erin-go-Bragh',
By the side of my Kathleen, my young wife, oh, leave me,
Then forget Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.

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