Clouds darken and dampen My spirit As My brow bows low While My eyes see only earth, The engraining of furrows on My soul.
Feels as though the winds of one thousand winters Have hacked away whatever life existed Within My now battered link To the world of Donn.
He calls - But not for Me to follow. He calls out - Storms of support for My cause He calls out storms - Which feed But dying embers That grow slowly from the ash Which had threatened to engulf And rise - Rise to flames Which burn - Which burn the dead wood.
Onward, yes onward comes the bellowing cries Which resounds through the hills As the stag roars in triumph. Once again he will rise, a Rí of the South, And with him will rise the hope of the Gael.
Embrace the new with purpose and vigour Revive the old and condemn Gall Glassa.