Текст песни John Mcdermott - The Bard of Armaugh, слова песни John Mcdermott

Текст песни John Mcdermott - The Bard of Armaugh

John Mcdermott - The Bard of Armaugh слова песни

Oh! list to the strains of a poor irish harperAnd scorn not the strings from his poor withered hand;Oh remember his fingers could once move more sharperTo raise up the memory of his dear native land.At fair or at wake I would twist my shillelaghOr 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 armaghAnd when sergeant daeth in his cold arms shall embrace meAnd 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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John Mcdermott

The Bard of Armaugh

Текст песни John Mcdermott - The Bard of Armaugh

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