Lift, MacCahir Óg, your face. You're brooding o'er the old disgrace
That black FitzWilliam stormed your place and drove you to the Ferns
Grey said victory was sure and soon the firebrand he'd secure
Until he met at Glenmalure with Fiach MacHugh O'Byrne.

 [bad word] 
Curse and swear Lord Kildare
Fiach will do what Fiach 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
Fiach MacHugh has given the word,
Follow me up to Carlow!

See the swords of Glen Imall; they're flashing o'er the English Pale
See all the children of the Gael, beneath O'Byrne's banner
Rooster of the fighting stock, would you let a Saxon [bad word] 
Crow out upon an Irish rock- fly up and teach him manners.

 [bad word] 

From Tassagart to Clonmore, there flows a stream of Saxon gore
But great is Rory Óg O'More at sending loons to Hades.
White is sick and Lane is fled and now for black FitzWilliam's head
We'll send it over, dripping red, to Liza and her ladies.