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.