i tabbed it 2 steps up:

  
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    Oh list' to the lay of a poor Irish harper,
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    And scorn not the strings in his old withered hands,
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    But remember those fingers, they once could move sharper,
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    To raise up the strains of his dear native land.

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    It was long before the shamrock, dear Isle's lovely emblem ,
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    Was crushed in its beauty by the Saxon's lion paw,
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    And all the pretty colleens around me would gather,
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    Called me their bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.

    
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    How I love to muse on the days of my boyhood,
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    Though four score and three years have fled by since then.
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    Still it gives sweet reflection, as every young joys should,
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    For the merry-hearted boys make the best of old men.

    
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    At a fair or a wake I would twist my shillelagh,
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    And trip through a dance with my brogues tied with straw.
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    There all the pretty maidens around me would gather,
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    Called me their bold Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.


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    In truth I have wandered this wide world over,
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    Yet Ireland's my home and a dwelling for me.
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    And, oh, let the turf that my old bones shall cover
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    Be cut from the land that is trod by the free.

 
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    And when Sergeant Death in his cold arms doth embrace me,
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    And lulls me to sleep with old 'Erin-go-Bragh',
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    By the side of my Kathleen, my dear pride, oh, place me,
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    Then forget Phelim Brady, the Bard of Armagh.