[a] Lift Mac Cahir [e] Og your face, [a] brooding o’er the [e] old disgrace
That [a] black Fitzwilliam [e] stormed your place and [G] drove you to the [a] Fern
Gray said victory was sure and soon the firebrand he’d secure
Until he met at Glenmalure with Fiach Mac Hugh O’Byrne
[e] Curse and swear, Lord Kildare, [G] Fiach will do what Feach will dare
[e] Now Fitzwilliam have a care for [G] fallen is your [a] star low
Up with halbert, out with sword, on we go for by the Lord
Fiach Mac Hugh has given the 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 the fighting stock, would you let a Saxon cock
Grow out upon an Irish rock, fly up and teach him manners
From Tassagart to Clonmore there flows a stream of Saxon Gore
Great is Rory Og O’More at sending loons to Hades.
White is sick and Lane is fled, now for black Fitzwilliams head
We’ll send it over, dripping red, to Queen Liza and her ladies
