Lift Mac Cahir Óg 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
Until he met at Glenmalure:  Feach Mac Hugh O'Byrne!

 [bad word] 
Curse and swear, Lord Kildare!
Feach will do what Feach 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,
Feach Mac Hugh 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 a fighting stock, would you let a Saxon [bad word] 
Crow out upon an Irish rock? Fly up and teach him manners!

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