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(Trad. Irish)

Lift, 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! 

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! 

Dm | C Dm | C Dm | C B | C | Dm Dm | C Dm | C Dm | C B | C | Dm Am C Am C | D Am C Am C | D
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