Lift Mac Cahir 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 with 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 halberd out with sword, on we’ll go for by the lord
Fiach MacHugh has given the word, “Follow me up to Carlow.”
See the swords of Glen Imayle, they’re flashin’ o’er the English pale,
See all the children of the Gael, beneath O’Byrne’s banners
Rooster of the fighting stock, would you let a Saxon cock
Crow out upon an Irish rock? Fly up and teach him manners.
From Tassagart to Clonmore, there flows a stream of Saxon gore
Well, great is Rory Oge O’More at sending loons to Hades.
White is sick,Grey is fled, and now for black FitzWilliam’s head
We’ll send it over, dripping red, to Queen Liza and her ladies.