Bard Of Armagh Oh, list to the tale of a poor Irish harper And scorn not the strings in his old withered hand But remember these fingers could once move more sharper To waken the echoes of his dear native land How I long for to muse on the days of my boyhood Though four score and three years have fled by since then Still it gives sweet reflections, as every young joy should That merry-hearted boys make the best of old men At wake or at fair I would twirl my shillelagh And trip through the jigs with my brogues bound with straw And all the pretty maidens from the village, the valley Loved the bold Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh And when sergeant Death's cold arms shall embrace me Oh lull me to sleep with sweet Erin Go Bragh By the side of my Kathleen, my own love, then place me And forget Phelim Brady, the bard of Armagh Note: The Bard of Armagh is thought to be Patrick Donnelly, a priest in Armagh. Though maintaining his administration of the church at Armagh, he was made Bishop of Dromore in 1697, the same year as the issuance of the Bishops Banishment Act. The Act required many of the Catholic Clergy to leave the Kingdom, and forbid the entry of any clergy. Donnelly became an outlaw and took refuge in Slieve Gullion, Armagh, and assumed the persona of travelling harper Phelim Brady. According to the Catholic Encyclopedia, however, Donnelly is listed in the government's register of "popish" clergy, dated 1704, as a priest in Newry, Co. Armagh. The song itself, like many heroic, rebel outlaw ballads, dates from the mid 19th century.

© 2005 Jonathan Ramsey Irish Music Productions