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
Untill he met at Glenmalure with Fiach MacHugh O´Byrne

See the swords of Glenn Imall, a flashing o´er the English pale
See all the children of the Gael beneath O´Byrne´s banners
Rooster of a fighting stock would yet let a Saxon cock
Crow out upon an Irish rock, fly up and teach him manners

Now from Taggart to Clonmore flows a stream of Saxon gore
And great is Rory Oge O´More in sending loons to Hades
White is sick and Grey has fled, now for Black Fitzwilliam´s head
We´ll send it over dripping red to Queen Liza and her ladies

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´ll go for by the Lord
Fiach Mac Hugh has given the word, follow me up to Carlow