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John Mcdermott - The Bard Of Armaugh Lyrics

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  • 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 throught 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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