Lift MacCahir Og your face Brooding o’er the old disgrace That black FitzWilliam stormed your place, Drove you to the Fern Grey said victory was sure Soon the firebrand he’d secure; Until he met at Glenmalure With Feach MacHugh O’Byrne. Curse and swear Lord Kildare, Feach will do what Feach 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 Feach MacHugh 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 Crow out upon an Irish rock, Fly up and teach him manners. From Tassagart to Clonmore, There flows a stream of Saxon gore Oh, great is Rory Oge O’More, At sending loons to Hades. White is sick and Lane is fled, Now for black FitzWilliam’s head We’ll send it over, dripping red, To Liza and her ladies.