читать дальшеLift, MacCahir Og, your face Brooding o'er the old disgrace That black Fitzwilliam stormed your place And drove you to the fern! Grey said victory was sure - Soon the firebrand he'd secure; Until he met, at Glenmalure, Fiach MacHugh O'Byrne!
Chorus: Curse and swear, Lord Kildare! Fiach will do what Fiach will dare - Now, Fitzwilliam, have a care: Fallen is your star low! Up with halbert! Out with sword! On we go, for, by the Lord Fiach MacHugh has given his word! Follow me up to Carlow!
See the swords of Glen Imayle Flashing o'er the English Pale! See all the children of the Gael Beneath O'Byrne's banners! Rooster of a fighting stock Would you let a Saxon cock Crow upon an Irish rock? Fly up and teach him manners!
* Now from Tassagart to Clonmore There flows a stream of Saxon gore And great is Rory Og O'More At sending loons to Hades! White is sick, and Grey is fled, Now what's with black Fitzwilliam's head We'll send it over dripping red - To Liza and her ladies!